


Baker Street: Part IV

by Cerdic519



Series: Elementary 366 [15]
Category: Clue | Cluedo - All Media Types, Good Omens - Neil Gaiman & Terry Pratchett, Mysterious Mr. Quin - Agatha Christie, Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms, Sherlock Holmes - Arthur Conan Doyle, Supernatural
Genre: 221B Baker Street, Assassination, Bacon, Caring, Chocolate, Clothing, Corruption, Cruelty, Devonshire, Dogs, Engineering, England - Freeform, Exhaustion, F/M, Family, Fan-fiction, Flowers, Forced Marriage, Framing Story, Friendship, Gay Sex, Hampshire, Illegitimacy, Inheritance, Insanity, Jewelry, Johnlock - Freeform, Kent - Freeform, Kidnapping, Lincolnshire, London, M/M, Male Prostitution, Minor Character Death, Monks, Murder, Nobility, Organized Crime, Period Typical Attitudes, Poison, Police, Pranks and Practical Jokes, Revenge, Romance, Servants, Size Difference, Sleeping Together, Slow Burn, Surprises, Sussex, Theft, Trains, Trauma, Victorian, character injury, dorset, dust - Freeform, suffolk - Freeform, vengeance
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-04-19
Updated: 2020-05-06
Packaged: 2021-03-02 00:07:22
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 21
Words: 71,519
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23735851
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Cerdic519/pseuds/Cerdic519
Summary: The Complete Cases Of Sherlock Holmes And John Watson. All 366 cases plus assorted interludes, hiatuses, codas &c.1889. The Moriarty Years, Part One. An epic struggle between good and evil begins, one that becomes ever more deadly as time goes on. It starts with a romantic interlude albeit one with sombre undertones in Dorsetshire, then a dead body on a train, a room with a view, and John's worst fears being proven right (again). Then there is a possibly too-tidy maid, some practical jokes with evil intent, dead bodies all over the place in Devonshire, dead bodies indirectly causing trouble in Wiltshire, vanishing thumb-prints, a most Faithful policeman, two dogs stolen and two more used for very different purposes. And John gets to visit an area of England that will become very dear to him, and one day far into the future, his home.
Relationships: Aziraphale/Crowley (Good Omens), Lucifer/OMC, Sherlock Holmes/John Watson
Series: Elementary 366 [15]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1555741
Kudos: 24





	1. Contents

**Author's Note:**

  * For [bookworm4ever81](https://archiveofourown.org/users/bookworm4ever81/gifts), [vitabear](https://archiveofourown.org/users/vitabear/gifts).



> This series is completely written and will be updated daily until done.  
> New cases are marked ☼.

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Contents page.

** 1889 **

**Interlude: Moriarty**  
by Mr. Sherrinford Holmes, Esquire  
_Sherlock's twin has to follow the rules – sort of_

 **Case 150: The Boscombe Valley Mystery**  
by Doctor John Watson, M.D.  
_A lady does not wish to be Disparaged, so Sherlock helps out_

 **Case 151: The Man With The Twisted Lip**  
by Doctor John Watson, M.D.  
_John has a surprise on his train – a dead body!_

 **Case 152: Rear Window ☼**  
by Mr. Sherlock Holmes, Esquire  
_A snooty landowner wants a different view – and gets it!_

 **Case 153: The Madness Of Colonel Warburton**  
by Doctor John Watson, M.D.  
_A shock for John, as once again he finds that the worst is true_

 **Case 154: Mrs. Cecil Forrester's Domestic Complication**  
by Doctor John Watson, M.D.  
_A lady is worried that her husband's writing-desk has been dusted_

 **Interlude: Bacon**  
by Mr. Sherlock Holmes, Esquire  
_Sherlock briefly considers the impossible_

 **Interlude: Testing Times**  
by Mr. Lucifer Garrick, Esquire  
_No matter how perfect a solution seems, there's usually a catch_

 **Case 155: The Adventure Of The Montpensiers**  
by Doctor John Watson, M.D.  
_A set of practical jokes ends in two deaths – thanks to Sherlock_

 **Case 156: The Adventure Of The Bishopgate Jewel**  
by Doctor John Watson, M.D.  
_Mass murder in a country house, but whodunnit?_

 **Case 157: The Adventure Of The Hammersmith Wonder**  
by Doctor John Watson, M.D.  
_Once again, a De'Ath has a matter for Sherlock to put right_

 **Case 158: The Adventure Of The Faithful Constable ☼**  
by Mr. Sherlock Holmes, Esquire  
_Every policeman should be honest – but can they be too honest?_

 **Case 159: The Adventure Of The Engineer's Thumb**  
by Doctor John Watson, M.D.  
_A thumb-print disappears, and a man faces ruin over a bridge_

 **Interlude: The S-word**  
by Mrs. Emmeline Strong  
_It was definitely NOT a simper!_

 **Case 160: The Hound Of The Baskervilles**  
by Doctor John Watson, M.D.  
_Two stolen dogs, and Sherlock meets a new master criminal_

 **Case 161: Fur And Away ☼**  
by Mr. Sherlock Holmes, Esquire  
_Two more stolen dogs – and a rich woman gets a terrible if deserved shock!_

 **Case 162: The Adventure Of The Boulevard Assassin**  
by Doctor John Watson, M.D.  
_An assassin of a rather strange sort, and another canine case_

 **Case 163: The Adventure Of The Dying Detective**  
by Doctor John Watson, M.D.  
_LeStrade's life is in danger, but Sherlock has a 'savage' solution_

 **Case 164: The Adventure Of The Blue Carbuncle**  
by Doctor John Watson, M.D.  
_John's first trip to the Sussex Downs, as another famous jewel is in danger of being stolen_

 **Interlude: Ups And Downs**  
by Mr. Sherlock Holmes  
_The detective reflects on pastoral scenes and rest cures_

ϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙ


	2. Interlude: Moriarty

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> 1889\. Sherlock's twin reflects on rules, regulations, heartaches and Hibernian history.

_[Narration by Mr. Sherrinford Holmes, Esquire]_

Even for someone with the Sight, it is not really for me to wonder what the blazes the Good Lord had been playing at when he allowed the likes of Professor James Moriarty to breathe air. London may have a mixed populace within its grimy embrace yet nearly all of them had some spark of humanity buried in there somewhere. But the professor? Nothing. 

The Moriarty family hailed originally from Mallow, the same town as my own, but had very different origins that confuse many unacquainted with matters Hibernian. Around the time of the English Civil Wars some two and a half centuries back (and of course the Irish Uprising that ran parallel to them) Ireland was split between four culturally very different groups of peoples. These were the old and mostly Catholic native Irish, the Norman families who had largely gone native and were also Catholic so had lost out after the Reformation, the Presbyterian Scots in the north who retained strong ties to their Caledonian homelands, and the English along the east and south coasts as well as in some of the larger towns elsewhere. The hatred between these groups made that a dark time, and is relevant to my story because the Moriartys were Catholic Norman-Irish while the Holmeses were Protestant English settlers originally from the East Riding of Yorkshire, who moved into Mallow under Great Elizabeth. As has been rightly said, old enmities do not die in the countryside, they only fester.

During the Irish Rebellion the Holmeses were nearly destroyed when a party of Moriartys attacked their house, but managed to flee to England and eventually regained their Irish lands on the Restoration in 1660. I can safely say that, two centuries on, today's Moriartys have not forgiven us for so disobligingly failing to allow themselves to be murdered. Indeed it was the familial hatred that led the so-called Professor to come to London and start his campaign against my brother. Over the next two and a bit years this vermin would put my beloved twin through hell, eventually coming close to destroying him and parting him from his beloved John Watson, which achieved pretty much the same thing. Yes, there would eventually be good out of the evil – but it seemed a strange way to go about things. If it was not for fear of the consequences I would gladly have taken a gun and finished him off myself before he could do any real harm.

The trouble was that same Law of Unintended Consequences that we had seen a couple of times in British politics recently, first when the Second Reform Act had widened the electorate not much but sufficiently to make bribing all the voters no longer feasible, and the politicians had responded with the 1872 Secret Ballot Act. That however had had an consequence of its own; freed from their vengeful landlords the Irish had promptly voted in separatist parties, turning Home Rule into the toxic subject it subsequently became. Removing Moriarty might be a good thing in the short term, but at least with him alive I knew that things would eventually work out. Painful as it was for me personally, it was best to leave things as they were.

That, however, did not debar me from helping to protect Sherlock from the villain's machinations with some seemingly 'lucky breaks'.....

ϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙ


	3. Case 150: The Boscombe Valley Mystery

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> 1889\. A romantic story yet one with dark undertones, as it marked the first if peripheral encounter with a certain Professor Moriarty. A young lady is being forced into marriage but manages to escape. Can Sherlock find her – and should he?

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> TW: Mention of faked suicide.

_[Narration by Doctor John Watson, M.D.]_

Foreword: Readers will remember my original rendition of this case as one of the rare failures on behalf of my brilliant friend. at least in that events prior to his involvement in the case rendered it unsolvable. In fact it was a success for reasons that could not be made clear at the time. More ominously it was our first albeit distant brush with that vile dreg of inhumanity who would utterly wreck my life, Professor James Moriarty. 

Talking of that villain as I regrettably must in this case, I shall use this opportunity to clarify one matter that I have been asked about by my readers. Mr. Moriarty had trained to be a doctor abroad, presumably somewhere that the bar for qualifications was considerably lower than here (i.e. where not a single spark of humanity was required). Technically therefore he should have been called 'Doctor Moriarty' but it was common practice to refer to him as 'Professor', a title to which he had little entitlement as he merely ran a correspondence college and had no literary or educational qualifications. I have gone along with the latter appellation if only to prevent myself having to think of him as a member of my own profession, whose maxim of 'first do no harm' he so signally failed to obey.

To my own ultimate cost.

ϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙ

It was strange, but that year of 'Eighty-Eight was actually the first Christmas that Sherlock and I had spent together in Baker Street. Only just; a few days before this particular Christmas Day news reached me that I had become an uncle with young Master Jack Watson entering the world a full month early; he clearly he did not get his time-keeping from his giraffe of a father! Even though I was invited I did not want to deprive the happy couple of time with their newborn baby, although I may or may not have shed a tear about a new generation of Watsons and my becoming an uncle. But it was a manly tear.

Thankfully Sherlock had by this time recovered from his recent brush with death and - I hoped - the subsequent depression caused by his involvement with the Ripper case. He was still incredibly 'clingy' however and although he accepted that I had to earn a crust by seeing to my patients, he did not like me to go out without him. In bed one cold December night he told me that he hated Christmas and flatly refused to help decorate the tree I purchased, so it served him right that I found that Sherlock doll which one of his more ardent fans had knitted for him, complete with pipe and deer-stalker to go on top of it (believe you me; we received _much_ worse through the general post!) and topped the tree with it. He had pouted at me for that but there had been no force in it. It was a happy time.

We celebrated the arrival of 'Eighty-Nine together and I wondered what new cases it would bring for him to solve, hoping fervently that none would be of the sort he had had of late. I could not know that, over the next two and a half years, a shadow would slowly cast itself across our lives and eventually all but destroy them. And that that shadow would start to fall with our very next case.

ϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙ

London in winter is not for the faint-hearted and the New Year arrived with a vicious snowstorm that all but paralysed the greatest city in the world for a few days. The surgery was forced to close, the road past its door resembling parts of Siberia although I had been asked by telegram to try to reach a number of important (richer) clients all of whom I somehow managed to get to. Of course I had my personal human heater to look forward to every time I returned to Baker Street of a evening – I was sure that Sherlock ran several degrees hotter than standard human for whatever reason - which considerably improved my mood that cold season.

It was early one Wednesday morning while the surgery was still closed when the inaptly named Mr. Somerville Hayland Merriweather came to 221B. Not just because the weather was far from merry but neither was the man himself. He was about forty-five years of age, corpulent, balding and he reeked of cologne so much that I was afraid letting him near the fire might end in him going up in flames. Though his brusque and abrupt manner soon had me considering that such an event would not have been that unwelcome. Maybe if I tripped and fell into him....

Sherlock was shaking his head at me, damn the fellow! But I noted that he was not shaking it _that_ much.....

“I _demand_ that you come down to Dorsetshire with me _at once!_ ” our malodorous visitor shrieked. “I have been most horribly betrayed and misused, and you are the fellow to put things right!”

If he was trying to persuade my friend to take on his case he was not exactly going the right way about it. I glanced again at the fire only to earn another (mildly) disapproving look from the local wiseacre. And when I pointedly pinched my nose I got a (slight) shake of the head.

“My services are ever in demand”, Sherlock said airily, shaking his head at me. “Perhaps it might suit if you explained exactly precisely who you are and what you require, sir, before I venture out in this somewhat inclement weather and cross several counties on your behalf?”

Our visitor drew himself up to his full height (five foot two if that) and looked down his short stubby nose at us both.

“ _I_ , sirs, am Mr. Somerville Hayland Merriweather!”

Clearly that announcement was meant to evoke awe and acknowledgement, rather than the puzzled silence that it actually received. That seemed to irritate our unwanted guest even more. He sat down heavily in the chair without actually being invited and frowned at us as if we had displeased him in some way. My opinion of him contrived to sink even further.

“I have been most cruelly abused, gentlemen, and it _must_ be corrected. My wife has left me!”

 _Probably wanted a breath of fresh air_ , I thought not at all cattily. That earned me another disapproving look.

“But you are not married”, Sherlock observed, and I noticed the lack of a wedding-ring. Our guest snorted.

“I arranged my wedding through the Disparagement Society – they deal with women who are wealthy but unable to take control of their own money because I suppose someone has to – and purchased my future wife for… let us just say a not inconsiderable sum. It is fortunate for her that I am so wealthy and can afford such a thing. Now she has disappeared! You _must_ find her!”

I snorted in disdain at the idea of actually buying someone in this day and age. The slave-trade had been consigned to the history books two decades before my birth and the British Empire was doing sterling work eradicating it from other less enlightened parts of the world, something that the critics of our Nation always contrived to overlook. And now this?

Sherlock stood and frowned at our visitor for some time before answering.

“Very well.”

I stared at him in shock. What on earth...?

“Please tell us of the facts of this case”, my friend went on, seemingly unaware of my reaction.

I was so shocked by his accepting the case of this obnoxious fellow – visitors less rude than this had been told to leave in no uncertain terms and in more than one case forcibly removed – that I barely managed to make any notes. Which was unfortunate as the obnoxious Mr. Merriweather spoke far too quickly.

“The girl – Heather something or other – was due to arrive yesterday at my house, Bosbury Manor. She was to travel on the two o' clock train from Waterloo to Templecombe and then change to the Somerset & Dorset line as far as Tally-Ho! Junction. The estate has its own private railway from there down the Boscombe Valley to the town of Bosbury.”

_(The Somerset & Dorset Railway Company had once had a reputation as one of the worst-run railways in the country – the Radstock disaster that had befallen it back in 'Seventy-Six had made unbelievable reading even given the poor records of some railway companies! - but around that time it had been taken over jointly by the Midland and London & South Western Railway Companies, and had recently been praised for its great improvement in services)._

“I see”, Sherlock said politely. “Pray continue.”

“Given the amount of money I had to lay out, a member of the Society was of course provided”, our unwelcome guest said, “but once they reached the junction, disaster! There was an altercation with some young jackanapes on the platform and her companion was knocked out by the impertinent fellow. By the time that the idiot had recovered his wits, the Bosbury train was pulling out of the station with the girl on it. It is frankly shocking the way that some people behave these days!”

I nodded vigorously and earned myself another sharp look. I had no idea as to why; I was only agreeing with the fellow!

“Was this company personage certain that the lady was on the train?” Sherlock asked, shaking his head at me for some reason.

“The guard said that he had just placed her in the carriage of the branch-line train.”

“Please describe this railway to me.”

“It connects with the Somerset & Dorset main line at Tally-Ho! Junction which is in the town of Boshampton. The train calls first at Boscombe Valley Halt and then Childmarton Manor Halt, where my carriage was waiting to meet her as my house lies across from there. The next and final stop is the town of Bosbury. I own most of the land in and around it, of course.”

 _Of course_ , I thought not at all snarkily. I did not even have to look up to know that I was getting another look.

“Is it possible that the lady could have alighted at Boscombe Valley Halt?” Sherlock asked. Our visitor shook his head.

“I sent a servant to check with the stationmaster there and only one person alighted from that train”, he said crossly. “A gentleman whom he knew by sight. I also checked at my own station, but nothing. Luckily I received the ill-written telegram that her utterly useless companion had dispatched from the telegraph office in Boshampton before the train reached Bosbury so had it held and thoroughly searched; still no sign of the wretched girl! She has vanished into thin air, Mr. Holmes, vanished! I _demand_ your immediate attention to this most important matter.”

“I shall definitely visit you in Dorsetshire on Friday”, Sherlock said. Noting the unpleasant fellow’s obvious outrage at this he quickly continued, “I am finishing up a matter for the government today and tomorrow that tangentially affects a minor member of the royal family. I am to presume that you would not request of me to tell Her Majesty that _she_ should wait?”

Because I was thirty-six years old I did not point a finger at our visitor and yell 'Hah!' at the top of my voice. All right, yes; I _was_ strongly tempted, even despite the irritatingly knowing look that 'someone' was sending me. Mr. Merriweather reddened.

“I shall expect you first thing”, he insisted.

“That will not happen”, Sherlock said. He continued quickly before our guest could start off again, “part of the purpose of the visit will be to retrace the steps of the lady’s journey, and for that I must obviously travel at the same time and on the same trains that she herself took. The doctor and I will most probably spend some days investigating this matter but we shall of course inform you of any developments. We shall find our own lodgings as I keep somewhat irregular hours, and would not wish to incommode your staff.”

 _Thank heaven for that at least_ , I thought.

ϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙ

After what had seemed like an eternity our unwelcome guest left and I opened the window to help remove the stench of his cologne, as even the bitter winter air was better than that. I was still frankly astonished that Sherlock had taken the case of this obnoxious excuse for a human being but on reflection I supposed that there had to have been a reason behind his decision.

“I did not know that you had a case with the government?” I asked curiously.

“I do not”, he said. “But the Disparagement Society is something that I have had my eye on for some little time now, and this seems an excellent chance to pursue further inquiries into it.”

“What is it about?” I asked.

“Randall became curious and tried to track down the real owners”, he told me. “He gave up when it had one false front after another. It is not just that something so horribly outdated as that set of beliefs should be allowed in our modern city, but my instincts tell me that this is worth investigating. I shall ask our friend Miss St. Leger to look into it; she can surely find who is behind the ramp.”

“So that is why you are looking into that awful fellow’s case”, I smiled. “I thought that there had to be a good reason.”

“You always have faith in me, John”, he smiled. “Let us hope I can justify it and find the lost lady before the Society or worse, the pungent and strident Mr. Somerville Hayland Merriweather catches up with her. And you are not to 'accidentally' bring any matches down to Dorsetshire, John!”

I pou... scowled. I was not allowed any fun!

ϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙ

Sherlock duly called on Miss St. Leger then, to his regret, had to visit his brother Randall to see what could be done about the Disparagement Society. Fortunately the lounge-lizard told him that he was confident that the government would soon be able to close down its operations as the Society played on a legal loophole that was about to be closed by a bill currently going through parliament, one which had the full support of both the major parties. Sherlock also discovered that the lady in question was one Miss Heather Rosewood, heiress to a small fortune from her late father who had been in the tea trade and had built up a considerable estate in the counties of Durham and Westmorland. Her uncle, a Mr. Ennis Cambridge, had been given control of the estate until she reached twenty-one in a year and a half's time and had arranged her marriage (sale) to Mr. Merriweather despite the prospective husband being over double the lady's tender age.

“There is something else of interest”, Sherlock said, his blue eyes twinkling mischievously. “Miss Rosewood was said to be enamoured of a young buck up in the cold North by name of Mr. Harry Percy and those affections were said to have been returned, but as he had not a bean to his name her ‘guardian’ went for the moneyed option.”

I could hear the quotation marks. I smiled.

“The point is”, Sherlock continued, “that Mr. Percy has recently decamped to the town of Poole in the same county as his vanished lady and barely twenty miles or a short train ride from the valley. I am sure that either or both the Society and her uncle are keeping a close eye on him just in case.”

“A lady vanishes”, I said softly. “I went to the library and obtained the timetables for you as you asked.”

“Thank you”, he smiled. “Tomorrow we must to Waterloo and points west. Oh to be young and in love!”

I laughed, although that reminded me that my thirty-seventh birthday was approaching fast – too fast - and I was getting ever further from being 'young'. Then again at least Sherlock would turn thirty-five this year. Although it was not fair that he was always those two and a half years behind me!

And that was another not-smirk, damn the fellow! Harrumph!

ϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙ

The following afternoon saw the two of us standing on the platform of a small station in the south Somersetshire countryside, the sharp January wind trying to blow straight through us. The village of Templecombe had two stations; the (Upper) one we had recently alighted at on the London to Exeter main line of the London and South Western Railway Company, and our much smaller (Lower) one on the Somerset and Dorset Railway which connected Bournemouth to Bath and the Bristol Channel (I thought it a pity that railway companies were always so hostile to each other, and that they had not built a combined station which would have been less than half a mile from both and still close to the village that they served). It was bitingly cold and I was relieved when after only a few minutes a smartly-kept train in the blue livery of the S&D rumbled in and pulled to a stop.

“Sorry, John”, my friend said with a grin. “That is the northbound train. We are heading south towards Bournemouth.”

Fortunately only a few moments later another train rattled in from the other direction, and we boarded just as the first train clattered off.

“This section is single-line only”, I observed. 

“The railway was formed by a merger of two separate companies”, Sherlock said, “and as you once told me it has passed through several vicissitudes before reaching its current fairly solid ground. I shall be particularly looking to examine the layout of the junction where Miss Rosewood was parted from her guide for the journey; I would have asked Mr. Merriweather but like you I did not wish to prolong his visit any more than was necessary if only for the purposes of being able to breathe clean air! Fortunately we have some little time there as the Bosbury train will wait for the next northbound train which comes in some minutes after our own.”

It was about twenty-five minutes later that we reached the charmingly-named Tally-Ho! Junction which indeed served the village of Boshampton (it was not really a town, but then with railways that might soon change). Sherlock told me that the Merriweathers had refused to allow the original plan of a route through Bosbury and then north, but had later changed their minds and funded a private line whose trains were run by the Somerset & Dorset. I wondered if the townsfolk would come to regret such a move; the map of England had been changed in so many places by the advent of the railway, towns that had missed out often losing jobs and population to those the railway had reached first.

Tally-Ho! Junction was a large station consisting of two substantial platforms as well as a small goods yard. The main exit to the village was through the station building on platforms one and two, the former being a bay full of trucks. There was a footbridge connecting it to the island platforms three and four, for northbound and southbound mainline trains respectively, and on across the tracks to the other side of the village. Sherlock asked around and we were fortunate to find one of the porters who had been there during the fracas, an affable grey-haired fellow called Mr. Julius Norreys.

“Proper young lady she was”, he said with a smile. “Not like the runt she had with her; he fair crept me out. Never trust a man who perfumes his hair, that's what my wife says. He'd gotten the lady onto the train then turned to get his bag – apparently I weren't good enough to handle it for him, or p'raps he was just too mean to tip - and he bumped this young fellow who was walking by. The chap grabbed him and demanded an apology, but when the old fellow wouldn't give him one he did.”

“Did what?” Sherlock asked.

“Gave him one!” the porter grinned. “Right in the kisser! Knocked him clean out, too. Good left hook for a doctor.

“How do you know that he was a doctor?” I wondered.

“Had a medical bag like the one our Doctor Walton uses”, the porter said. “Fellow tried to bring him round with some sort of smelling-salts but by then her train was away up the valley. Had to laugh; first the runt tried to run after it, then he screamed at us that we would have to get it back somehow – as if we could, never mind would! - and finally he _demanded_ we tell him where the nearest post-office was.”

“What about the fellow who hit him?” Sherlock asked.

“Not a local”, the porter said firmly. “Twenties, not more than thirty. Dark-haired and hadn't shaved, average height and Ted – the ticket-collector – later told me his ticket was from Parkstone down on the south coast. Fellow was calm even though he'd got so mad at being bumped.”

Sherlock thanked him and a coin changed hands. I waited until the porter had gone before speaking.

“Mr. Percy?” I asked. Sherlock shook his head.

“The description I was given of him is that he is blond and six foot one”, he said. “He could dye his hair but I doubt that even a master of disguise could suddenly lose eight inches in height, besides which one would have expected that observant porter to have spotted some sort of reaction from the lady. Parkstone is close by Poole but no, I do not think that it was him. I see that the northbound train is approaching. We had better board our own train if we are to follow Miss Rosewood’s movements exactly.”

We climbed into a first-class compartment and were sat down just as the other train pulled in alongside us. We had to wait a few minutes for any connecting passengers to cross the footbridge, then our train and the two others left almost together, although our line quickly diverged and dropped away before curving back to pass beneath the main line through the arches of a stone viaduct.

About five minutes later we stopped at Boscombe Valley Halt, which served the villages of Bosham St. Peter and Bosham All Saints. Sherlock and I watched the platform and only one person got off there, a middle-aged lady wearing a rather unfortunate feathered hat and carrying a basket. Then we continued to Childmarton Manor Halt which lay in the valley between Childmarton village on one side and the manor house on the other. The village was small and had only one inn, the Fighting Cocks. They did not normally offer rooms during winter but as I had expected were willing to accommodate us. Ironically our rooms both had a view across the valley to the manor house, an ominous reminder of our pungent and obnoxious client.

“I shall have to pay a visit tonight to let him know that we have come”, Sherlock sighed. “You can take the time to pump the locals for knowledge of the man and see if they know anything about the disappearance of the lady.”

I was thankful that I was to be spared at least one encounter with Mr. Merriweather, and smiled at my friend.

ϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙ

There was a hot breakfast waiting for us the next morning which was a most welcome sight. Less welcome was the news that the landlord brought to the small dining-room with it.

“His nobs is here demanding to see you”, he said, his face clearly indicating that he too was not overly fond of our client. “I told him that _gentlemen_ do not get disturbed at this time of a morning unless the place is on fire, so he is champing at the bit.”

 _And you very much enjoyed telling him that_ , I thought but did not say. Though I may have let slip a slight smile, and Sherlock may have tipped the innkeeper rather a lot for such a short message.

We finished our breakfast and made ourselves presentable – I noted that neither of us was exactly hurrying – before making our way to meet our client who, predictably, was less than happy at having been kept waiting.

“You must act at once!” he insisted before we had even had time to sit down. “The Society has this morning sent me a most alarming telegram this morning, informing me their agent monitoring the villain Mr. Percy told them that he has boarded a train headed this way!” He squinted anxiously at his watch. “He could be here in barely an hour from now!”

“Calm yourself, Mr. Merriweather”, Sherlock said placidly. “If the doctor and I hire a carriage then we can easily intercept the fellow at Blandford. Even if he knows the whereabouts of your 'intended' I very much doubt that he would be foolish enough to lead a pursuer straight to the lady. My research has shown that he is a most cunning young fellow, so he might well be expecting to be followed.”

The man scowled but I could see that Sherlock’s point had struck home.

“Though I should caution you against hoping to recover the lady”, Sherlock went on. “I am afraid that Mr. Harry Percy is also a most desperate character; there are some things in his past that even I with my wide experience of Mankind found... troubling. I do not know what lengths he would go to in order to frustrate your pursuit, but I fear that he would go far indeed.”

“You think that he might harm the girl?” Mr. Merriweather asked doubtfully.

“Or worse”, Sherlock said ominously. “I have initiated a certain course of inquiry which if it yields a result may have information for you either later today or tomorrow. In the meantime the doctor and I must away if we are to intercept the young fellow.”

He looked annoyed that he would be unable to badger us any further but he was clearly torn between that and our failing to intercept his rival and he eventually nodded, departing with a grunt.

“I have had less pleasant clients”, Sherlock said after he had gone. “But I think that he could give both the Huffington-Brands and Mr. Henry Stanswood-Bane a run for their money!”

I smiled at that.

ϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙ

Sherlock took the reins of our hired carriage and I soon realized that we were heading north, not south towards Blandford Forum. We skirted some outlying cottages of Boshampton and soon my friend was turning us into the station yard of Kilminster, the station just north of Tally-Ho! Junction. 

“I think that this is our quarry”, he said. “Indeed by the smoke that I can see approaching we are only just in time. The railway is indeed living up to its new and higher standards.”

I held back my curiosity and soon the train pulled into the station. Four people came through the station building but Sherlock evinced no interest in any of them. Then a fifth appeared, a tall, handsome tow-headed young fellow who visibly baulked when he saw us waiting for him. Sherlock leaped down and went to meet him. 

“Greetings, sir”, he beamed. “I believe that I have the pleasure of addressing Mr. Harry Percy?”

The young man looked at him warily. He was an inch or so taller than Sherlock and muscular for his age, although I was certain that in any fight there would be only one winner. He nodded but did not speak.

“Then perhaps we may offer you a lift to your destination”, Sherlock said. “Do not look so worried, sir. If I had been inclined to turn you over to Mr. Merriweather I could easily have sent him here to meet you. With the local constabulary.”

The man looked worried at that but silently got into the back of our cart, and Sherlock clicked the reins.

ϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙ

The young gentleman spoke only to give directions as we passed through some beautiful Dorsetshire countryside. About ten minutes later we drew up outside a small cottage that was set a little apart from the nearby village of Henley St. Alban. Mr. Percy looked uncertainly at us both.

“Sirs.....”

“You have fifteen minutes, no more”, Sherlock said quietly. “I would remind you that the next northbound train is the one which will connect at Templecombe with the Plymouth express†, the only train that will suffice given the circumstances.”

He nodded and got down from the cart, making his way up the path to the cottage.

“What on earth is going on?” I blurted out. He smiled at my confusion. 

“We have sufficient time for me to elucidate you”, he said, “although I will understand if the deceit arising from this matter is more than an English doctor feels up to handling.....”

_“Sherlock!”_

It was not a whine whatever some blue-eyed genius said about it later. He chuckled at my frustration and I poked him in annoyance. 

“Very well”, he said. “Several people were in on this ramp which has been exceptionally well-planned. I am only thankful that Mr. Percy shows no inclination towards a criminal life or he might be keeping me rather busy!”

“He knows that Miss Rosewood will be guarded by a Society member all the way from her home in County Durham to Dorsetshire, so he plans accordingly. I would wager that one of his associates, selected for his dissimilarity to the man himself, was the one who engineered the _contretemps_ at Tally-Ho! Junction.”

“Clever”, I muttered, looking towards the cottage. I hoped that Mr. Percy would be quick and not be tempted to start anything while we were waiting.

“Mr. Percy's accomplice strikes the guardian down”, Sherlock said, “although it is not smelling salts that he holds under his nose but something to keep him unconscious until the train has left. Once this happens he allows his victim to come to and of course the first thing that the fellow sees is the train pulling away into the distance.”

“With the lady on it”, I smiled.

“No.”

“What?” I asked, now totally confused.

“You will remember from the layout of the junction station that the northbound train came through on platform three, while the branch train was on the next track but at platform two”, he said. “Once she is on the train and her guardian is out for the count the lady reaches across, opens the door to the carriage in the next train, opens her own door and simply steps across. She is soon after greeted at Kilminster by her beau Mr. Percy, who has arranged the whole thing.”

“Wait a minute”, I objected, “I thought you said that he was being watched.”

“Mr. Percy turned that to his advantage”, Sherlock said. “At a time when it would be expected a second confederate, this time selected for his similarity to our dashing rescuer of distressed damsels, leaves the lodging-house in Poole dressed in his friend's clothes. Once the pursuit has been drawn away, it is easy for Mr. Percy to do the same journey initially at least in disguise, while his friend probably has an excellent day out in Bournemouth or somewhere further along the London & South Western main line, leading his pursuers a merry dance.”

I frowned. 

“Mr. Merriweather”, I said heavily. To my surprise Sherlock chuckled.

“That is where the deceit comes in”, he said. He passed me a folded sheet of paper and I read its contents.

Lord but the man was good!

ϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙ

“Well?”

I decided that I had been wrong. It was possibly to dislike the pug-faced, obnoxious little creep even more. Sherlock shook his head.

“It is bad news”, he said gravely. “But it could have been worse.”

That clearly unsettled the fellow.

“How?” he demanded. 

“Miss Heather Rosewood died last week”, Sherlock said.

Mr. Merriweather snorted his disbelief.

“Nonsense!” he snapped. “The Society assured me that she reached the junction quite safely!”

“That”, Sherlock said heavily, “was _not_ Miss Heather Rosewood. I cannot divulge the lady’s name except to say she was a friend of your intended bride.”

“But damnation, healthy young ladies do not just go and die!” the man snapped.

“Suicide”, Sherlock muttered so quietly I barely heard him. Clearly our client did because his face went deathly white.

“You are joking!”

“I so wish that I was”, Sherlock said, handing him over what was obviously a death certificate. “That is the official certificate; I had it checked to make sure but it is quite genuine. In the circumstances I am sure that you would not of course wish me to pursue this matter any further.”

“Circumstances?” 

The man looked confused. Sherlock looked away, seemingly embarrassed.

“If this affair were to become public knowledge, sir”, he said carefully, “it might be said by certain, ahem, _ignorant_ persons that the situation regarding her prospective marriage to you caused this lady to take her own life. Of course I am sure that _most_ people would not be so coarse or uncouth but alas! the newspapers today…. they do tend to cater to the lowest common denominator, do they not? Your reputation would be _seriously_ damaged.”

Mr. Merriweather nodded frantically.

“Yes”, he said. “Yes, I see that. Er, the young buck?”

“I understand that Mr. Harry Percy has decided to quit England for a life in the United States”, Sherlock said. “He has nothing to keep him here any more.”

“No. No, indeed. Well, thank you for your time, gentlemen. I am sure you did your best. Yes.”

Sherlock bowed us out and we made a silent getaway to the local halt where we boarded the two-coach train train. Two stops later we were back at Tally-Ho! Junction, the scene of the ‘crime’. 

“Did Miss St. Leger find out anything more about that dreadful Society?” I asked.

He nodded, looking unusually grave.

“They are a small part of what looks to be a much larger criminal empire”, he said. “A man – I will not say gentleman because he is none – called Professor James Moriarty is behind it, and will doubtless be annoyed that that particular source of funds will dry up very soon.”

I had no idea when he said that just how hated that name was to become to me.

“I hope that those two are happy together”, I said as we waited for our own train to Templecombe and the connection to London.

“Happiness cannot be guaranteed”, Sherlock said. “But they love each other and that is a start.”

Indeed, I thought. Love.

ϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙ

_Notes:_   
_† Expresses did not of course make an official stop at a small village like Templecombe but, positioned as it was about half-way between Waterloo and Plymouth, the station was used by the London & South Western Railway to effect a change of locomotive for crew purposes thus avoiding the busier Salisbury. As some people would take advantage of this to stretch their legs on the platform it would have been easy for someone to join the train during the changeover, and to then buy a ticket from either Salisbury or Exeter._

ϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙ


	4. Case 151: The Man With The Twisted Lip

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> 1889\. After a happy family event John comes across a suspicious death in his travels – but for once the list of suspects is both fixed and quite short.

_[Narration by Doctor John Watson, M.D.]_

I ended our last story with Sherlock and I at Tally-Ho! Junction on our way back to dear old London Town. I should have mentioned that the weather was decidedly on the turn, and the weak winter sun that had marked our departure from the Boscombe Valley had already vanished beneath a heavy veil of cloud (although a certain blue-eyed someone's quip about the weather not being so merry now we had left Mr. Merriweather was just _bad!)_ By the time we reached Templecombe for the London train, Lord Winter was not so much falling on as bodily throwing himself at England, the country disappearing under several inches of snow in a matter of hours. Fortunately Mr. Percy and Miss Rosewood did make their boat, though only just. 

For all their manifold failings our railway companies were used to the vagaries of the British weather and although our own journey back to Baker Street was longer than the one down we still made it home safely, if decidedly chilled. So if I spent much of that evening cu... enjoying some manly embracing on the couch with a certain blue-eyed genius, well, it was solely for the warmth that he generated. 

_It sure as hell was not for those damnably annoying judgemental silences! Harrumph!_

ϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙ

It was thoughts of home that filled my mind in those cold winter days as my brother and sister-in-law were again pressing me to visit them and my new nephew in their home in Berwick-on-Tweed, some three hundred miles away to the north. My thirty-seventh birthday was to my _chagrin_ chuffing down the tracks rather towards me much more quickly than I would have liked, and while Stevie was happily settled in his own house, I was still in lodgings with my friend. Yet the recent Christmas clear of the shadows of recent events had been the happiest one since when my dear mother had been alive and somehow I just could not envisage coming back to any house that did not possess a Sherlock. This was my life and I liked it.

My having finally decided to bite the bullet and travel my trip north had to then be postponed for two reasons, first until after the terrible storm had passed and then when Sherlock caught a chill which he seemed unable to shake off. Though I did not at any time fear for his life I had no hesitation in sending an immediate telegram off to Stevie, telling him that I could not come until the following week at best. I felt a little guilty at abusing my brother's hospitality in this manner but he replied that he quite understood. I had no idea why he had appended a semi-colon and a closed bracket to his message; it must have been an error in the telegraph office. So it happened that my birthday passed in London rather than Northumberland, and Sherlock made my day by presenting me with a new doctor's bag with a small monogrammed letter 'W' made up of four electrical charges stitched along each side.

“For all the times you help me”, he said. “It is one of a kind; the creators keep a record of each design and never copy it. I thought that you might like something a little distinctive since doctors' bags are so alike, and you once said that you thought having your initials on it was pretentious.”

“I love it!” I said firmly. “My old one was falling apart so it is perfect. Thank you!”

He also handed me an envelope for my new nephew although I was under firm instruction not to open it myself but to hand it to my sister-in-law. I presumed (wrongly as it turned out) that it was a cheque and my happy day was complete when Mrs. Hudson served chocolate cake for dessert at tea saying that she would wrap the rest for my trip (apart of course from two slices put aside for when two certain London policemen came round which they both did 'by chance' later that day, only narrowly missing each other!). As Sherlock was by this time fully recovered I left for the North on Saturday the twenty-sixth.

ϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙ

Some horrible and cruel blue-eyed personage says I have to add that I ate the rest of the cake before the trip. Of course I did. It would have spoiled otherwise.

ϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙ

Sherlock had got yet another present for me; a first-class rail return ticket including a sleeping car berth on the way back so that I could spend an extra day with Stevie. I will not lie when I say that such thoughtfulness touched me. That generosity extended to my brother and his wife for when she opened my friend's envelope, my sister-in-law gasped.

“What is it?” I asked.

Wordlessly she handed the piece of paper to the giraffe who seemed equally stunned once he had read it.

“Your friend has paid for four weeks worth of childcare for us over the next three years”, my brother said, clearly as overcome as his wife (although it must have been all that hair in Princess Stephanie's case). “This is the top nanny company in the whole area; we could never have afforded their services but they say they will come to the house and take Jack any time we arrange with them for up to two weeks each year so that we can have some time to ourselves. If we have another child in that time they will take them as well!

“That is so Sherlock!” I said proudly. My brother and sister-in-law looked at me a little oddly I thought, given my friend’s generosity, but neither of them said anything.

I had a wonderful week with my new nephew who I quickly found was the messiest child ever. Even if left alone on the couch he would magically attract some sticky substance to his person, the Lord alone knew where from. I also enjoyed that my brother and sister-in-law got to go out and leave me in charge of young Jack which meant that they had some time to themselves. But as the weekend approached and my time drew to a close I found myself missing London. Missing Baker Street. Missing Sherlock most of all.

I remember looking down at the little bundle of trouble and silently wondering at something that I knew, deep down, I would never have. Yet it did not bother me perhaps as much as it once might have done. After all I had something much better. And if I had a tear in my eye, then the maid had obviously not dusted the room well enough. I had sensitive eyes.

I left late on Saturday evening and the three of them accompanied me to the station to see me off. I must say that there is something wonderful about the sleeper car service, going to sleep at one end of the country and waking up at another. As it was first-class I had a whole berth to myself. I turned in for the night feeling generally happy with life, my anxieties about Sherlock's recent travails having been shelved, I hoped indefinitely.

In retrospect I should have known that something bad would happen next.

ϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙ

I had just been woken with my morning coffee and biscuits, and had wisely forsworn the frankly dangerous idea of shaving on a moving train. I glanced at my watch; assuming that we were on time the train was probably just over half an hour from King’s Cross.

There was a knock at the door and when I opened it the conductor was standing in the corridor. I could see that he was perturbed even before the fellow started babbling.

“I saw from the list of passengers that you are Doctor John Weston”, he managed. “Is that right?”

Sherlock had booked the tickets under an assumed name for me. Even though my face was unknown to most of the general public outside my practice, the increasing popularity of my stories about my best friend had already resulted in me being recognized by my name, and on one occasion a lady had quite embarrassed me with her forwardness upon discovering my identity (all right, she had pressed for a meeting with the great man himself and some horrible personage had actually sniggered about it when I had told him, damn the fellow!) Also the 'Strand' magazine was currently serializing our 'vampiric' adventure from our time in Austria-Hungary (The Valley Of Fear) so my profile was quite high at the time.

“Doctor John Watson”, I corrected.

I supposed that the flicker of surprise I saw in the man's eyes was either because doctors tended not to travel incognito, or perhaps because he recognized my name. His next words confirmed that it was the latter.

“You are Mr. Sherlock Holmes's author!” he blurted out. “Sir, it is terrible! There has been a murder in Carriage Three!”

I immediately rued my decision not to have brought my new doctor’s bag on my short holiday, although at least I might bring my expertise to bear on whatever had happened. There was only one first-class sleeper coach and I followed the conductor through the dining-car before he unlocked the connecting door into the second-class section of the train. He walked quickly only to stop so suddenly outside a compartment that I almost ran into the back of him. He looked nervously up and down the corridor before extracting a key and opening the door in front of him and ushered me inside. 

It was a standard two-berth compartment, its bland ordinariness offset only by the man lying dead on the floor. He was about thirty-five years of age, quite thin with his dark hair already going grey. His main distinctive feature was a slightly twisted lower lip which was barely detectable due to his face having very clearly contorted in anger before death. 

First things first. I turned to the conductor. 

“There will be an inquest”, I said calmly, “and you will of course be asked questions. As you were the first person on the scene your evidence will be important. Is there any alcohol on the train?”

To my surprise the man blushed.

“I have a hip-flask”, he admitted, “but of course I am not allowed to drink on duty.”

“I am proscribing one glass of it for your nerves”, I said, scribbling a quick note to that effect, “and here is my card if your employers prove at all difficult. I need you to go back to your van and write down _exactly_ what you did and saw, and times or at least time gaps included as best you can remember them. Once you are done, bring it back here to me here. Now, has anyone else seen the body?”

The lady in compartment four”, he said looking embarrassed. “The victim had arranged to be called an hour before King's Cross and I had just found him when she rang. She walked down the corridor when I failed to attend her and saw everything. I took her back to her room and told her to stay there.”

“Did you lock this door behind you?” I asked.

He hesitated and I could easily guess the answer. I sighed and ushered him away. Once he was gone I examined the body again and concluded that death had been by two bullets both of which had hit the heart and had likely been fired from less than a foot away given the degree of scorching around the entrance wounds. I quickly searched the rest of the room but found nothing except, rather incongruously, a sapphire tie-pin a little way under the bed that had been slept in. This did not seem to match with the victim’s generally shoddy appearance, and I wondered at its presence. I did not touch it but I made a note of its position and wrote down a quick description as well as sketching a diagram of the room. 

After a moment’s thought I decided to go through the dead man’s pockets, feeling rather awkward as I did so. They contained little more than the general clutter found in most gentlemen’s attire but I did find six calling-cards in the wallet with ‘Dr. Abraham Harrington’ on them. The name was annoyingly familiar to me from somewhere but I could not place it.

I was interrupted in my search by a knock at the door which meant that the conductor had returned. I told him to lock the room and that we would adjourn to his van, which turned out to be a little cubbyhole of a room back at the end of the first-class sleeper (that would have meant that any second-class passengers who rang for him would face a wait, I thought, which was perhaps why the lady had come looking for him). I noticed as we walked that the train was slowing, which meant that we must be nearly at King’s Cross.

“Do you stay here all night?” I asked. He nodded. 

“We have to lock the doors between each set of three coaches”, he explained, “but I am on call for the first two sleepers, yours and the one where the body..... um.....”

He trailed off, and I wondered if a second glass of whisky might be advisable. 

“So the door into Carriage Four is locked, then?” I asked.

“Yes sir”, he said. “Ben is on duty there; we have keys for an emergency but we are not supposed to......”

He trailed off again but I knew from his pallor exactly where his mind had got as mine was there too. With the exits to the other part of the train sealed and my being the only first-class passenger, the murderer was almost certainly one of the people in this part of the train. In other words, someone very close.

I looked through the conductor’s statement and checked that he had provided a full list of passengers and their compartments. There had only been six passengers in this seven-compartment coach which meant that each had got a double-berth to themselves. I did not see how the two of us could detain five people at least one of whom would be more than anxious to leave, so I suggested instead that when the train stopped he should go straight to the station office and report the death to the relevant authorities, while I would remain with the body and his notes (the fact that this would enable me to copy down the list of names may have been a factor in my 'helpfulness'). 

I was barely back in the dead man's room when the train finally came to a halt and the conductor almost fell out the door in his eagerness to be away. It was only a few short moments later (I had barely finished my copying) that I had two station officials with me followed ten minutes later by three policemen. They seemed impressed with the way that I had handled matters and once they had taken a short statement from me I was allowed to leave and head on to Baker Street, where I looked forward to discussing the night's events with my friend.

ϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙ

Much to my annoyance Sherlock was out when I returned to 221B and I did not get to see him until he arrived back just before dinner. Knowing how forgetful he was when it came to meals I managed to curb my desire to discuss the case until we had reached coffee. 

“Really, doctor!” he said waving an admonitory finger at me. “Am I not overworked enough that you must go stumbling over dead bodies every time that you leave the house?”

I scowled but I could see that he did not really mean it.

“It is exceedingly rare that a case has such a closed field”, I said. “Normally we have to look at everyone with a possible motive, but here we have to find a motive amongst a small band of people. One of them _must_ be the killer.”

Sherlock relaxed and sat back. I stared at him suspiciously.

“Do you already know something about this case?” I demanded.

“I think I can say with some certainty that I know which of the people on the train killed your dead man”, he said, sucking at his pipe. “I sent a telegram to our friend Sergeant Baldur when I read about the case in the paper this morning and your evidence – which by the way was exceptionally well-gathered – only serves to confirm my suspicions.”

I silently marvelled at the modern London journalist who could get a murder story onto the streets before I could traverse the two miles between King's Cross and Baker Street.

“I suspect the lady”, I said, looking at the list of passengers. “Miss Louise Mayfair. I think that she was definitely in on it and that she distracted the guard, possibly to allow an accomplice to escape.”

“The sergeant did say in his reply that she was the only one with a criminal record”, Sherlock admitted. “Her past is quite interesting, apart from that. However you will recall that she only distracted the conductor _after_ he had found the body, and that he stayed with her back to her own compartment. No, I am quite certain that this is a one-man crime.”

“The conductor was quite taken with her”, I recalled. “He said that he stayed with her for two to three minutes after returning her to her berth. And all that time the door to the crime scene was unlocked and unguarded.”

“But the man was already dead”, he pointed out looking at my list of suspects. “Let us start with the conductor, Mr. Albert Brakes. A good name for a railway worker.”

“He found the body”, I said. “And he had a key to the rest of the train, so he could have admitted someone from the fourth carriage or beyond. I know that you said this is a one-person crime but he might still be involved somehow.”

He shook his head.

“I doubt that”, he said. “No, I am sure that no-one came through from the other part of the train.”

I wondered how he could be so certain of that.

“The train stopped for a change of locomotive at Doncaster”, I said, “and the North Eastern Railway staff were replaced by Great Northern ones including him. I am certain that the victim did not die until Peterborough at the very earliest, more likely closer to Sandy. Mr. Brakes said that he remained in his cupboard all the way from Doncaster.”

“All the way?” he asked, surprised.

“He answered a query from the gentleman in 2A about fifteen minutes in but he stood in the corridor the whole time”, I said. “No-one could have got to the door of 7B, Doctor Harrington's compartment, without passing him; you know how narrow those corridors are.”

“The dining-car?” he asked. I shook my head.

“Not in use” I said. “I asked Mr. Brakes about that; it was open only from Aberdeen as far as Newcastle, the staff leaving the train there for other duties. Mr. Brakes said that the door between it and the leading second-class sleeper was locked, as he had to check it as part of his duties.”

“What about the train guard?” he asked. “Does he not also have a key?” 

I shook my head. 

“The guard's van was situated in the middle of the train four coaches away from the crime scene”, I explained. “The new guard at Doncaster came up to the window of the conductor's area to check that everything was all right – he knows Mr. Brakes a little - but he did not enter the coach.”

There was a knock at the door and a boy entered bearing a telegram. Sherlock quickly read it, told the boy there was no reply and gave him a coin before he left.

“Some inquiries that I asked Sergeant Baldur to follow up”, he explained. “It seems as if those calling-cards you found in the dead man's wallet were genuine. It was indeed Doctor Abraham Harrington who was killed.”

I frowned. The name seemed vaguely familiar to me for some reason but I could not place it.

“The Foster Street Orphanage”, he reminded me. “You expounded very forcefully on it last summer.”

Then I remembered. The headline, 'Josiah versus Abraham' had stuck in my mind, a story of two brothers fighting over the future of an orphanage. Mr. Josiah Harrington, the elder by three years, had wanted to close it down and sell the land, while his younger brother Abraham who held joint ownership of the property had opposed him. However the latter was dying of a horrible wasting disease, and although he might have years yet the story had speculated that his elder brother was merely waiting for him to pass into the next world so that he could close the place and sell the land.

“You believe that Mr. Josiah Harrington may have killed his brother?” I asked. “But how could he have got onto the train. Unless....”

I suddenly saw it.

“Unless he was disguised as someone else!” I almost shouted. 

“An interesting speculation”, he said with a smile. “That would mean he would have to buy off one of the other people on the train so that he could assume their identity.”

“I wish that we had physical descriptions of the four men”, I said. “I remember that picture of the two brothers and they were both tall and sombre-looking; I remember thinking 'funeral directors'. I was in with the body so I did not see any of the passengers alight.”

“Sergeant Baldur sent me descriptions of everyone from the coach”, he said, picking up a sheet of paper. “Mr. Felix Bath in 2A is about thirty, of medium height and somewhat overweight. Mr. Allington Ford in 3B is about fifty, thin and above average height. Moving past Miss Louise Mayfair in 4B – she is barely five foot tall apart from certain rather more obvious issues - we have Mr. Michael Woods in 5A, about forty, tall and of average build. Mr. Edward Smith-Sellers in 6A is also about forty, quite short and thin, and has a small but notable birthmark on his face. Then of course there is your conductor.”

“He is about sixty and rather fat for a tall man”, I said, remembering how the man had almost matched my above-average height despite his girth. “It seems to look like it is either Mr. Ford or Mr. Woods as they have the correct height. That cannot be faked or disguised.”

“Indeed”, he said. “You have stumbled across a most interesting case doctor but I think by tomorrow or the day after I may have enough to prove who the murderer was.”

I stared at him dubiously but he looked strangely confident.

ϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙ

It was snowing again that day and Sherlock had to go out after dinner for some reason. I was initially glad not to accompany him, although when he did not immediately return I began to wish that I had. The snow was now falling so fast that I could not even make out the houses across the street from our window, and I grew increasingly worried. At last I heard the welcoming sound of him turning of the handle. 

He looked awful! I hurried over to him and helped him out of his wet coat and over to the fireplace. He was shivering and I could have proposed marriage to her when Mrs. Hudson bustled in bare moments after him with a steaming cup of coffee. She promised to have a hot meal up within half an hour, which was even better.

I realized that all my friend's clothes were soaked and set about undressing him by the fireplace. He stood there seemingly too out of it to notice though he did respond to commands to move so I could get his various items of clothing off of him. I then took a towel from the drying-rail in front of the fire – mercifully warm – and began to rub him all over, drying him off. Finally I dressed him in his favourite pyjamas (yes, the fluffy bunny ones!) and dressing-gown, then sat him down on the sofa making sure that he was sufficiently together before placing his mug in his hands. Typically he drank it down almost at once making me wince; I knew that I could never do that. He was still shivering slightly though so I made him another coffee which he also downed.

“So good”, he muttered. “I do not deserve you, John.”

I had wanted to yell at him for being so careless with his health as to get this way but as those impossibly blue eyes stared at me in gratitude, my anger melted away. I took his hand and sighed in a put-upon manner.

“You have to take better care of yourself”, I grumbled. “I shall get one of the maids to put a warming-pan in your bed this evening.”

“I could sleep right now”, he yawned.

“Mrs. Hudson will have supper up shortly”, I said. “Let us get some food inside you first.”

The look he gave me was of such undying gratitude that I nearly melted into a puddle right there and then. 

He was still an idiot, though.

ϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙ

Sergeant Baldur came round the following day to bring us up to date on developments. Unsurprisingly no-one among the passengers had admitted to recognizing the tie-pin although in the sergeant's eyes such a quality item befitted Mr. Woods who had both a London house and a fair-sized estate in Scotland, rather than Mr. Ford who owned a small house in London and had a clerical post at a trading-house. Mr. Josiah Harrington had when asked insisted that his brother would never have worn anything so expensive, preferring to dress down despite his wealth. Sherlock also told me that he had sent another telegram which, if answered, would clear things up even more but he would tell me nothing more no matter how much I pouted. And I did not pout!

I did not!

The day was marked however by a most sensational development in the case. My quick search of the compartment had failed to uncover it but hidden under the lower of the two bunks police had found a revolver from which two shots had been discharged. And there had indeed been fingerprints on it – except they turned out to belong to no-one on the train (all the passengers and Mr. Brakes had by this time been interviewed and had had their prints taken). Mr. Josiah Harrington had subsequently identified the gun as owned by his brother and a servant in the house had confirmed this to be the one missing from his master's gun-cupboard. 

“That seems very strange”, I observed after dinner that evening. “Surely a murderer would either take a weapon with him or dispose of it via the window where it would be almost undetectable?”

“There was the possibility of everyone being searched”, Sherlock reminded me. “Throwing something from a train window into the pitch dark bears its own risk; the murderer could not know if they might be passing an unlit station or lineside building where it might be discovered the next day.”

“They could still have wiped the gun after the crime”, I said. “But I do not see how anyone else could have got onto the train without being seen.”

He had that knowing look that really irritated me, even when he hid it behind his book. I knew a not-smirk when I did not see one!

ϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙ

Ten days passed and I assumed that Sherlock had had no answer to his telegram. But on Thursday morning I was excited to read in the paper that there had been a confession, at least of sorts. One Mr. Richard Smith who had apparently disembarked two days ago from the liner 'Imperial', claimed that he had killed Dr. Abraham Harrington before fleeing to the United States. He stated that he had sneaked onto the train during the changeover at Doncaster, and picked the lock of compartment 1, the only empty one in the coach. He had knocked at the victim's door pretending to be the conductor, then forced his way in and shot him at close range. His motive, he said cryptically, was that Dr. Abraham Harrington was far from what he appeared to be and that one day the truth regarding his real character would come out. I assumed that the police forces of that country would be tracking Mr. Smith but with the wide-open spaces of the west still being settled and the general lawlessness therein, there would surely be little hope of finding him.

That same morning Sherlock announced that he was expecting a visitor and asked if I would remain. Sure enough, soon after that Mrs. Hudson announced our guest.

“Doctor Josiah Harrington.”

A tall and somewhat cadaverous gentleman of about forty years of age entered our room and walked silently to the empty chair by the fire. He seemed vaguely familiar from somewhere but I assumed that it was just my recollection of his picture in the 'Times'. Sherlock waited until he had sat down before speaking. 

“You murdered your brother.”

Perhaps not the most conventional start to a conversation. I nearly broke my pencil in my astonishment. Our guest however did not seem in the least bit perturbed.

“That is a most serious accusation, sir”, he said dryly, “even from such a great man as yourself. I trust that you can make it good?”

“I would rather not”, Sherlock said to my further astonishment. “In the light of certain circumstances surrounding this crime, bringing you to trial would not only be pointless but would harm innocent – well, _fairly_ innocent people who should not have been involved.”

“They knew the risks”, Mr. Harrington said curtly. “One acted through loyalty, the other for a great sum of money. Why do you believe that I should not face trial for such a heinous crime, assuming of course that I actually did it?”

Sherlock hesitated, which was very unlike him.

“Because you are dying”, he said softly. “Your brother had all but murdered you, and you merely returned the favour.”

I needed a drink.

ϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙ

“I think that this crime dates back some years to a time when you and your brother Abraham were both in the grip of a devil called opium”, Sherlock said. “The story that your brother put out was that he contracted a fatal disease while in China, but the truth is that he contracted that disease via his drug-taking.”

“Abe was always one for spinning a good yarn”, our visitor said with a wry smile. “The twisted lip was from when he tried to push me out of a tree when we were boys; he slipped and fell out himself but told our parents that I had pushed him. He was so credible; he even gulled the newspapers into believing that I was the one who wanted to close the orphanage, not him.”

“Indeed”, Sherlock said, “and he used that credibility to secure your end. He persuaded you some time ago that you needed an injection and he made sure to use a needle smeared with his own infected blood. It took some time to manifest but eventually you found out.”

Our visitor nodded.

“My doctor in Harley Street confirmed that it was exactly the same thing that Abe had”, he said. “He was even able to give me a rough date as to when I had been infected. That was how I tracked it to his injection.”

“You knew that your brother had regular business in Edinburgh so killing him on the night sleeper seemed a good choice”, Sherlock continued. “You found a conductor who looked suitably different from you in appearance but whom you could resemble with an effort, and paid him to take a day off so that you could take his place. Did your brother recognize you at the end?”

“He did”, our visitor said curtly. “I made sure of that!”

I shuddered at his tone.

“But Mr. Brakes was at least three stone heavier!” I objected though I had a nagging feeling that my semi-recognition of the man when he had arrived only proved Sherlock's theory.

“A specialist created what he called a 'fat-suit' for me”, our visitor explained. “Cheek pads, rouge and old-fashioned hair powder did the rest. I trust that I was convincing as Mr. Albert Brakes, doctor?”

I felt as if my world was falling apart. Now that I looked at him I could see the fretful conductor, strikingly different though the two men were.

“What about the tie-pin?” I asked.

“That like the gun was to suggest an outsider”, Sherlock said. “Ironically it also became a weakness. Few genuine railway employees, faced with such temptation and a minimal likelihood of ever being found out, would have left it there.”

“But the telegram!” I objected. “New York?”

“A servant or colleague who doubtless enjoyed a fast trip across the wide Atlantic Ocean and some time abroad”, Sherlock said. Our guest nodded.

“So now you know all”, he said. “I know that the law is the law, but I have read the good doctor's books about you Mr. Holmes. I believe that you may well grant me justice instead.”

Sherlock hesitated.

“The London police can be very determined”, he said, “and although I hesitate to speak ill of them it is quite possible that they may make a case against one of the other passengers if they choose not to believe your telegram. I personally think that unlikely, but if any innocent person has to go to court as a result of your actions Mr. Harrington or is damaged by speculation about them, then I will have no hesitation in producing this.”

He rose and walked over to his desk taking out a single sheet of paper before taking it to and placing it on the table I was sat at.

“This is a signed confession”, he told our guest. “You will sign it, the doctor and I will witness it, and you have my solemn word that I will only make it public if absolutely necessary. Be assured however that I _will_ use it if the need arises, sir, but my personal opinion is that you will soon be answering to a higher court than any in this world.”

Our visitor nodded, stood and walked smartly over to the table, signing without hesitation. Then he bowed to us both and left silently.

“Well!” I said.

“His brother murdered him, albeit slowly”, Sherlock said. “He merely struck back. An eye for an eye as the Good Book says. He will bear the mark of that crime for what remains of his days.”

ϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙ

Postscriptum: Doctor Josiah Harrington lived only for a further two months after his encounter with us in Baker Street. In his will he left a letter to us both, thanking us for our understanding and asking that the case be published. I have fulfilled that, his last request.

ϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙ


	5. Case 152: Rear Window ☼

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> 1889\. Holmes is asked by a nobleman to stop the machinations of his neighbour, who is behaving like the worst of the medieval barons – so the great detective helps someone move house!

_[Narration by Mr. Sherlock Holmes, Esquire]_

I knew that the English aristocracy was famed for its occasional (and sometimes not so occasional) eccentricity, but even I was hard put not to smile when Sir Edward Fiennes came to call on us in Baker Street on the day after the resolution of the Twisted Lip case. For all that I may or may not on the odd occasion have chivvied Watson about his interest in the social pages, one would have had to have been on Mars for the past year not to have recognized the distinctive figure of this particular knight of the realm.

Sir Edward's predecessor Sir Benedict had been made a baron some years back and had lived what had seemed a quiet and unremarkable life on his estate in western Kent – right up to the moment that he had died. He had never married and it had been expected that his considerable fortune would be divided equally between five cousins, all of whom (as is so often the way) had been very suddenly attentive in their relative's latter years. Instead he had shocked them all in his will by admitting to an illegitimate son whom he had just acknowledged as his heir, to wit the gentleman now before us, and had instead left the whole lot to him!

That would have been more than enough for the vultures of the newspapers to have made hay with the story, but it had been boosted further by the fact that the new knight of the realm, formerly Ned 'Hammer' Hambrook (he had changed his surname on his unexpected inheritance), was a renowned pugilist who had until that moment been unaware of his true father. Very fortunately for the young fellow one of his friends was a private in my brother Carlyon's regiment, and he recommended that the new baron approach my brother as he had some 'helpful' friends. I had been able to refer a lawyer I knew who had fought off the inevitable challenges of the late lord's relatives, and the former pugilist now stood in undisputed possession of one of the larger estates in the Garden of England.

“I thank you again for all you did, Mr. Holmes”, the nobleman said (he certainly made a much better impression that many who thought much more of themselves solely because they could trace their lineages back to Edward the Third, even though I had read somewhere that so could most people). “A most curious matter has come to my attention on the estate that adjoins mine which tangentially affects me, and I wondered if you might take the time to look into it?”

I reflected that like many of my stepbrother Campbell's boys this fellow could be both cultured and rough as the need arose. Indeed I knew that this gentleman was one of those who used Campbell's houses and had already installed his younger brother William as his heir down in Kent. The latter was married with two sons and a daughter with a fourth child on the way, so the succession seemed assured.

“How may we be of service?” I asked.

“The only downside of my new house, apart from its ridiculous size of course, is my neighbour”, he said. “One Emma Nugent-Hale, a most unpleasant woman – a lady by title, certainly not by character. She has her house overlooking the village of Strood, across the Medway from Chatham, while I am a little way inland not far from the village of Meopham. It is a hilly area so I do not have to look out and see Hardham Hall, for which I am greatly relieved.”

Although I may have on the odd occasion have chivvied John about his obsession with the social pages of the 'Times', this was a rare instance where I did indeed know a member of the nobility as my dear mother had spoken of this female in terms that..... well, it would have shocked even some of Campbell's 'boys'. I, very foolishly, had wondered if anyone could have really been that bad and had contrived to meet the harridan after one of the social events that I went to for John's sake. If anything my mother had understated the woman's sheer awfulness, and to cap it all she had simpered at me! Fortunately John, always obliging, had consented to a whole lot of that manly embracing thing that he allowed on the odd occasion. Whisky may or may not have been involved too, although I was sure that I had not finished the whole bottle all by myself.

“Last year Lady Nugent-Hale had the rear part of the estate, which is the side closest to mine, landscaped”, our guest said. “It would have afforded her a fine view westwards except that the low hill that lies in that direction is topped by a single cottage, all that remains of the village of North Meopham that was depopulated to make way for the hall.”

_(Curiously one of our later adventures would also involve one of these 'lost' villages of England, when we would visit Rutlandshire for the Priory School case)._

“Why was a single house left?” John wondered.

“I thought that too, so looked into it”, our guest said. “The landscaping involved the removal of a small wood that had lain between the hall and the hill, and I presumed that as was often the case a single house was left for the shepherd to look after the sheep who were there before they were moved. The cottage is however owned by my unpleasant neighbour and she decided that as it now spoiled the view from her rear window it would have to go. Never mind that a family with four children lived there.”

I looked sharply at him. Years of dealing with occasionally less than fully open clients had made me spot something there. Our visitor blushed.

“I find the eldest boy Walter attractive”, he admitted. “But for one thing he is only seventeen, and more importantly he is in love with a girl in Meopham. She is reportedly stringing him along, but.... I would never get involved because of his age.”

“Yet you still wish to help him”, I said, thinking again that this former pugilist had far more nobility in him than many of his new class. “Why cannot Lady Nugent-Hale simply throw them out of their cottage, if she owns it?”

“I understand that they have some sort of tenancy agreement”, Lord Fiennes explained, “so she has simply tripled the rent on the place. They will have to leave as they cannot afford that.”

“Just because some spoilt woman wants no-one looking in her own window!” Watson said in disgust.

I looked at him thoughtfully. As I have said on more than one occasion, for all that he was no detective he sometimes hit the nail squarely on the head.

“Indeed”, I said. “Well, it seems that I shall have to slide into the house-moving business.”

They both looked at me in surprise.

ϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙ

I had to call in on my Mother, and I made a mental note to send a boy of jam cream fingers to Miss St. Leger for giving me the 'all clear' in that she did not have any newly-written horror to expose me to. Mother remarked that I had been exceedingly unfortunate (a strange use of that word) to just miss out on 'Dallas', which was apparently based on the exploits of Campbell's Texan gentleman Mr. Ewing who, she said, was moderately well-endowed (all right, those were not her exact words and I was trembling as I left). Honestly, it was a miracle of the first order that I had managed to grow up so normal and well-balanced with a family like mine!

I said as much to John as he passed me all four rashers of his bacon across at breakfast the following morning, and for some strange reason he just shook his head at me. Odd.

ϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙ

I suppose that I should have been grateful that at least my cousin Luke had had the decency to don a dressing-gown. Even if he was sat in the embrace of an almost naked Benji who was all too clearly ready for my departure, but for now was content to stroke the overly long blond hair of a captive who was definitely not purring.

It beggared belief that Luke was one of the relatives I actually _liked!_

“I know how wasteful government can be”, I said, “so what I need is some sort of observation tower. Preferably of light-house dimensions.”

“Sounds easy”, Luke said, leaning into the taller man's embrace. “Oh that is _so_ good, Benji. Why?”

“Because you like it, Mr. Lucifer sir”, Benji grinned. I shook my head at the saucy fellow.

“I also need you to move a house”, I said.

That finally caught my cousin's attention and he stared sharply at me.

“Move it where?” he asked. 

“About a mile across Kent”, I said. “Also to pay for the family who live there to be housed while it is being rebuilt.”

“It sounds an awful lot of effort”, he yawned.

“I could easily give Benji here a triple lot of extra supplies for....”

“Whendoyouwantitdone?”

Even Benji sniggered at that. Luke shot him an annoyed look, but some more petting soon had him not-purring again. Honestly!

ϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙ

A week later Lord Fiennes was back in Baker Street, looking much happier.

“I see your joke about moving house now, sir”, he smiled. “I should have known that you of all people meant it quite literally.

I smiled back at him. Luke had had the government purchase the land from Lady Nugent-Hale while promising to remove the cottage from it, to which she had graciously acceded. She was probably less than pleased when she learned that Luke had actually had the entire cottage disassembled and then rebuilt on Lord Fiennes's estate, where Walter's two brothers now had jobs. When she saw the forty-foot high tower going up with an observation deck staring straight into all her rear windows, she was doubtless some way beyond less than pleased! However she had been unable to do anything about it as the government needed the tower for some top secret experiment that could not be disclosed even to the courts.

As John would so rightly say, oh dear how sad never mind.

“She has been in all the newspapers complaining about it”, Lord Fiennes said, “especially as the government has agreed that once they have finished with the tower it will be open to the public to come and enjoy the excellent views – right into her rear windows!”

“She brought her sufferings entirely on herself”, I said unsympathetically. “I hope that the new tower does not impinge on your own estate, my lord?”

Our visitor shook his head. 

“There is another hill in between us”, he said. “Besides, I had Balin and Balan down to celebrate this weekend so.... I was somewhat distracted.”

I sighed. I was surrounded by sex-maniacs!

ϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙ

Postscriptum: Lord Fiennes had a further small matter for me the following year, when he suspected that young Walter's new wife was seeing someone else, and asked me to investigate. I did so and sure enough she was, so the nobleman had his young man after all. Four times the first evening together, he so helpfully told me. He was almost as bad as Luke!

Almost. At least the nobleman did not send me a telegram asking me to come and see him 'because I cannot manage any stairs just now'! And as for Benji's smirk when I got there, that was just terrible. As I said to John, I hated it when people smirked too much.

I got another strange look from him when I said that. I had no idea why.

ϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙ


	6. Case 153: The Madness Of Colonel Warburton

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> 1889\. The dynamic duo's first trip to Alresford in Hampshire is memorable indeed, as it is John's turn to face the consequences of past actions – except that said consequences are not just very much alive but also involved in a potential murder case.

_[Narration by Doctor John Watson, M.D.]_

My friend Sherlock often poked gentle fun at my cynical view of the Universe in general, in particular at my belief that things always went wrong sooner or later. In fairness I could perhaps have countered as to how good my life had seemed before the events that had led me to decamp to Egypt to 'cleanse' the Watson family name of my grandfather's disgraceful behaviour, and my three years without my friend (I little knew how soon that experience was to be repeated and to an infinitely worse extent). It was I had to admit true; I believed that even if good things did happen, matters always evened themselves out in the end. So when I returned from my trip North to see Stevie and his family feeling very happy (dead bodies in the next coach permitting), I was wary as to what life had in store to throw at me to make up for that happiness.

Yes, I was indeed cynical. Like that other seven-letter word starting with the third letter of the alphabet. Correct.

ϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙ

“We may have a new case”, Sherlock announced, about a week after Valentine’s Day. “A Miss Joan Warburton wishes us to investigate as to whether her father Colonel Warburton is being poisoned.”

I frowned. That name was familiar to me from somewhere but I could not quite place it.

“She has evidence of this?” I asked, making a mental note to look through Sherlock's files later to see if the name was there.

“The lady is markedly uninformative in her communication”, Sherlock said, shaking his head at his letter as if it had displeased him, “but reading between the lines it seems there is discord between the colonel's grandsons – presumably her nephews - over the matter. She asks if we can visit them all at” – he squinted at the letter – “Stoke Fratrum, some miles north of the town of Alresford in the county of Hampshire. Her father is the local squire there.”

I frowned. The town too was familiar; I had read of it in connection with the English Civil War and the small yet important battle† fought near it, but there was a more recent memory that remained irritatingly elusive.

“It all sounds rather strange”, I remarked. “But we should definitely attend if she has asked for you. I can easily get Peter to cover my case load as he still owes me for covering Anne’s pregnancy last year.”

“I did read in the newspapers that the city's population is expanding”, Sherlock smiled. “He and our dear friend Benji seem to be responsible for quite a large part of that!”

I bit back a scowl. Mr. Benjamin Jackson-Giles, the lover of Sherlock's cousin Mr. Lucifer Garrick, was a decent fellow and Sherlock had rescued him from the horrors of the Tankerville Club, but he had a bad habit of leering at my Sherlock every time that he came round for treatment. If I had not known it to be beneath him I would have thought that my friend was having him round deliberately often just to annoy me! Fortunately I knew that such a thing would have been beneath him.

ϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙ

The following day we again decamped to Waterloo Station, this time taking the Winchester train and alighting at the aforementioned town of Alresford, an attractive little Georgian town some miles east of Winchester. A twenty-minute carriage ride later and we were in Stoke Fratrum itself which was charmingly set in its own little dean and had a small grey-stone church as well as a tavern, the Pilgrim’s Rest. It was quite idyllic, even down to the unusually warm weather and gentle breeze that welcomed us.

Henston Hall itself was a lovely old Late Georgian building, large enough to fulfil the requirements of a manor house but small enough to function like a family home. It was very much the sort of place that I could see myself a squire as, if one of my more obliging clients decided to show their gratitude by bequeathing me all their wealth (or if pigs started flying, which was a damn sight more likely!). 

We were told that Miss Warburton was expecting us and were to be shown straight into her presence if that was acceptable. It was, and a servant led us to a reception room off the main hall. Two ladies were waiting for us, one in her mid-forties and the other.....

I stared in horror at the younger lady. Hell no! My luck could surely not be _this_ bad?

ϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙ

Mrs. Matthew Leeds. Formerly Miss Elizabeth Bradley, the la... woman that I had slept with that one time during my sojourn in the Land of the Pharaohs, and who...... oh, God my.... her son had to be here too! As a doctor I should have been better able to hide my emotions but it would not have needed a detective of Sherlock's great ability to know from my reaction that something was very wrong here. I felt as if I had seen a ghost!

Miss Warburton smiled in welcome at my friend, although I was sure that she too noted my strange reaction. There was an awkward pause during which an apocalypse most disobligingly did not happen.

“Thank you for coming, Mr. Holmes”, our hostess said. “And Doctor Watson of course.”

 _Of course_ , I thought sourly. Sherlock looked at me curiously. I 'detected' that my immediate future would contain a somewhat difficult conversation (as I was fearing the worst this would be one of those rare times that I would be proven all too right).

“This is my niece Mrs. Matthew Leeds”, Miss Warburton said. “I am sure that the doctor is acquainted with her; he saved her husband's cousin James's life when they were in Egypt.”

I was acquainted with her all right. Very closely acquainted. Horizontally, even. This could not have been worse!

Which showed yet again just how much I was wont to underestimate the Universe and its ability to put the boot in even further. Because at that very moment a door opened to the side and a small boy ran into the room and up to Eli... Mrs. Leeds. He had sandy-brown cropped hair and a cheerful smile. 

_And hazel-green eyes in a freckled face!_

“Ivan, I _told_ you that I had visitors”, Mrs. Leeds said disapprovingly as a breathless nanny came rushing through the door after her charge, to receive a pout from the boy that was also rather too familiar. “I will play with you later.”

 _Ivan_ , I thought resignedly. _The Russian version of John; this woman's mother had been from that great country._

“But mama…” the boy protested. 

She silenced him with a look, though it was nothing compared to the one that I was getting from Sherlock. In the name of all that was holy, how did I end up in such a mess?

ϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙ

Refreshments were served and Miss Warburton insisted on our eating before she told us of why she had asked for my friend's help. Thus it was some little time later that the four of us finally got down to business, I instinctively placing Sherlock between myself and Mrs. Leeds almost as a shield. Judging from the look on her face she knew exactly what I was doing. Worse, from the look on his face so did he.

I wondered what Antarctica was like at this time of year. Race out of here back to the station, change at Winchester - surely a boat from Southampton had to be headed in the general direction?

Sherlock was shaking his head at me. I prayed even harder for that apocalypse.

“My father Colonel Mark Warburton is the squire here and owns the Hall”, Miss Warburton explained. “He has been sedated under our local doctor after he suffered another attack of madness at dinner the night before last. This was his third such, yet otherwise he has been completely lucid between them and shown no signs of the malady.”

“Perhaps John might make his own examination?” Mrs. Leeds suggested.

I winced and stared hard at the floor. She had used my Christian name, and clearly everyone had noticed. Worse, there was still no damn apocalypse!

“Perhaps you had better go and see to young Ivan, Elizabeth dear”, Miss Warburton said, eyeing her curiously. “I am sure that I can explain everything to our guests.”

Mrs. Leeds nodded and left, rather quickly I noted. And I was still getting that sharp look from Sherlock.

“My sister Josephine married Captain Stephen Leeds and they had three sons; the Colonel's grandsons George, Thomas and Matthew”, Miss Warburton explained, and I could feel her gaze on me. “Dear Elizabeth is Matthew's wife, and you have seen Ivan.”

“I thought that Captain James's family lived in the town that he took his name from?” I asked.

“Stephen is his first cousin and he moved down here when he and Josephine married”, she explained. “As my father had but two daughters the estate would have passed to her, but sadly she died last year. Stephen is serving in India just now.”

“So now you believe that your father is being poisoned”, Sherlock said. “I am afraid that there is no easy way to ask my next question. Did these attacks that your father has been suffering from start soon after your sister's passing?”

She blushed fiercely.

“Yes”, she said. “That is one reason that I am suspicious. As I am sure someone like the doctor here knows, the understanding of madness is changing these days. I fear that someone may be trying to poison my father.”

I saw what she had left unsaid there, namely that that someone was likely a family member. Possibly even... someone I knew. 

“I am afraid that I must persists with the difficult questions”, Sherlock said, still giving me a sharp look. “Is the estate to be divided between the colonel's grandsons?”

“That is a fair question”, she said. “Thank you for not asking about it, but I myself am to receive a small annuity. My father has no brothers or other close relatives and is the last of the male Warburtons. Until last year the estate was to be split three ways, equally between my nephews. But around that time my father had a severe illness - pneumonia, nothing to do with his current affliction. Matthew was visiting at the time and Thomas came home but George did not, claiming that he had to stay in the North to ‘pursue a business opportunity’.” Her lip curled in disdain. “As a result my father rewrote his will. Matthew and Thomas are now to get two-fifths each and George only one-fifth, so it would still take two of them to decide on the future of the manor house.”

Sherlock thought for a moment.

“What is your local doctor like?”

Miss Warburton snorted disdainfully.

“Paul Spennymoor is a fool!” she said bluntly, “but I would stake this house on his being an honest fool. I do not think that he could be bribed if only because he would go and tell everyone about it afterwards. Yet he has the brass neck to accuse the village girls of gossiping too much!”

Sherlock paused.

“The doctor and I had better stay at the local inn”, he said eventually. “I do not wish to inconvenience a household already upset by the semi-removal of its master. Do you happen to have a book on the family’s history?”

She seemed a little surprised at the question but nodded.

“There is one on display in the big glass case in the library, directly opposite this room”, she said, “Would you like me to show you there?”

“Thank you”, he smiled. “Doctor, perhaps you might go and see Mrs. Leeds. She may have something of interest to say in this matter.”

The two of them left the room together. I uttered up another prayer – much good they were doing lately – and went off in pursuit of Mrs. Matthew Leeds.

ϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙ

I found the woman that I.... I found my quarry in her room, mercifully without our.... her son. Ye Gods, how did I end up in such a mess?

“So”, I said, eloquent as ever.

“So”, she echoed. 

“Ivan”, I said. “He is.... four years old?”

I was clearly asking much more than her son’s age, and she knew it.

“Four and a half”, she said quietly. “His birthday is in September.”

I swallowed hard. As a doctor I knew the mathematics here, but there was always a chance that I was wrong. And that the Moon was made of green cheese.

“Matthew?” I said.

“He does not know”, she said heavily. She was looking at me in a way that stated quite clearly how worried she was.

 _“How?”_ I asked incredulously. She blushed.

“He was very.... traditional in his beliefs when we were headed back to England”, she said. “But two months in, February, I..... I just knew that when we.... you know...... so he and I.....”

I was not feeling particularly helpful for some strange and inexplicable reason, so I just stared at her.

“He is a man”, she said at last. “Some wine, a little bravado.... he was boasting afterwards that it was actually his idea.”

I felt nauseated! This belonged in some book entitled 'Most Painful Conversations Ever'. It definitely would have featured in the top one hundred of my own personal best (or worst), probably in the top ten. I thought back to that sandy-haired little boy and felt a lump forming in my throat. All this so soon after Sherlock had both found and lost his own son. Life was unfair.

“The midwife is an old servant of mine”, she said, “and she told him that the boy was over a month premature but large for his size. He is.... he believed that.”

 _You should have sold him a bridge while you were at it_ , I thought, not the least bit cattily.

“Matthew has blue eyes like me”, she said looking at me anxiously. “His great-grandfather on his mother's side had hazel ones so I said that they must have resurfaced. It can happen.”

As a doctor I knew that mathematically that was about as unlikely as me avoiding the painfully difficult conversation with a certain someone that awaited me at our inn for the night, but I did not say it. 

“Matthew is a good father?” I ventured.

“The best!” she said firmly. 

The implication was clear; back off. I sighed unhappily.

ϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙ

Mercifully Sherlock did not ask me about my discussion with Mrs. Leeds as we were driven back to the village. After we had secured a room at the inn and had had a surprisingly passable dinner we retired to our room, a twin with a double and single bed. I asked about his research. 

“I went down to the kitchens and spoke with Mrs. Fulmore, the cook”, he said, looking at me warily. “I thought it best to get her account of the day of the potential poisoning.”

I lay back on the double bed and he watched me from the other one, clearly a little uncertain.

“I want to tell you everything”, I said softly. 

So I did. When I had finished I turned away from him and stared at the ugly wallpaper.

“Is there any doubt?” he asked eventually. I sniffed.

“None”, I said sourly. “There are a lot of small things, but the timings make it all but certain that I am that poor boy's father!”

I left out the obvious follow-on from that. I nearly burst when I felt the bed creak under his weight and he snuggled in behind me.

“You feel that you betrayed me”, he said softly.

I was not crying. Grown men did not cry. It was probably an allergic reaction, to that horrible wallpaper most likely. He pulled me closer and I gulped.

“You had no way of knowing when or even if you were coming back”, he whispered. “You had a right to get on with your life....”

“I betrayed you!” I bit out. “Hell Sherlock, I loved you for years and I still went and slept with someone else!”

“We all make mistakes from time to time”, he said. “Even I. The Dundas Case surely proved that.” 

I let out a sob, then turned and curled into him. He wrapped his arms around me even tighter and we lay there in the darkness of a winter's evening in a cold Hampshire inn, two men in love. I did not deserve this wonderful man's forgiveness but I was determined to earn it. Every day of our lives together.

ϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙ

I woke the following morning after a surprisingly good night's rest, despite the fact that I had gone to bed almost fully clothed. The fact that Sherlock was still holding me in his arms was, just possibly, one factor in that. I shifted in his embrace and he woke, bleary-eyed as usual.

“What will you do?” he asked quietly.

A good question and one I had spent much of the evening before worrying over. Legally, I could demand access to the child; I might even gain custody of him with a smart enough lawyer or at least access to him. But aside from my somewhat irregular life I knew that I could not do that to a boy who was clearly happy with his life, especially given that he was at such a formative age. Sherlock fondled my cheek. 

“You already know what you have to do”, he said softly. “You are too good and true to do anything else. You can only offer her your support and be ready to help if you are ever needed.”

“But what if her husband is the man behind the poisoning?” I asked.

He looked at me narrowly.

“Would you wish that?” he asked softly.

And a very small part of me, a very bad part of me whispered yes. I said nothing but Sherlock knew. He always knew.

ϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙ

We returned to the Hall later that morning to be met by the three brothers. Mr. George Leeds was in his forties, a bluff red-faced fellow tending towards corpulence. He was clearly against our involvement unlike his brothers who both welcomed us. Mr. Thomas Leeds was only a year older than his brother Matthew, both tall silent men with grave expressions on their faces. Captain Matthew Leeds even remembered me from Egypt, and from the cordiality of his welcome I deduced that his wife had not mentioned the connection between her and myself. I thanked heaven for that small mercy at least!

Sherlock remained with the brothers while I was shown up to see the colonel, who was still under sedation. The aforementioned Doctor Paul Spennymoor was with him and I quickly formed a favourable impression of the older man, agreeing with his diagnosis that the colonel was suffering from madness. Though the cause was a mystery as there was apparently no history of it in the family.

“I have read many of your detective books”, he said, blushing as if admitting to some cardinal sin rather than such exceptionally good taste in literature, “and I have taken one or two investigative measures myself. I covertly extracted samples of the colonel’s shaving cream and other toiletries and tested them myself but found nothing. However….”

He stopped, looking guilty for some reason.

“What is it?” I pressed.

“I treated the captain for a chest infection a few weeks ago”, he said slowly. “While I was in his room I noticed a book which he must have purchased from one of the shops down in Alresford, a book that I recognized. It contains a chapter about certain poisons which can cause madness.”

“Oh”, I said, trying to suppress a horrible feeling of pleasure at the revelation. “Captain Matthew.”

ϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙ

“This is all stuff and nonsense”, Mr. George Leeds said, a little too loudly. 

Sherlock had asked all sorts of questions and it was now time for dinner. He had just after arriving been down to the kitchen and somehow persuaded the cook to produce much the same meal as on the day the colonel’s madness had flared up. Mercifully (for my sake) there was only the seven of us; my .... Master Ivan Leeds was eating alone with his nanny.

_How the blazes did I get myself into messes like this?_

“It is my opinion that something the colonel ingested that day brought on his madness”, Sherlock said firmly. “Now all of you were at that fateful meal. I need to know who ate or didn’t eat which dish.”

Amid a lot of discussion the meal progressed slowly. It had been a Sunday, so it had been (and was again) roast beef, Yorkshire pudding and vegetables, followed by blancmange for dessert and then coffee (I noted but did not comment on the fact that Sherlock very carefully moved the stuffing on his plate to one side; unfortunately I knew just why that was). There was some little disagreement over who had eaten what, but the general upshot was that the colonel had not eaten anything which had not also been partaken of by at least one of the other people at the table. I fully expected Sherlock to look disappointed at that, but to my surprise he did not.

“The old man was sulking, I remember”, Captain Leeds said. “That fool of a doctor had left a list of things he couldn’t eat because they might start him off again, and blancmange was on it.”

 _(Before I am assailed by representatives of the blancmange industry – and yes, that sort of thing_ does _happen! - I should explain that this had been a lemon blancmange, and that the citric acid used in its preparation was the reason for the ban as it would have reacted with the colonel's current medication)._

“What did he have instead?” Sherlock asked.

“The last of a chocolate cake, with cream”, Mr. George Leeds said. “He and I split that; I hate blancmange!”

I thought it a crying shame that that cake was not here, for added realism of course. Sherlock looked at me for some reason.

”So there was no way that he could have been poisoned at the dinner table, then?” Mr. Thomas Leeds asked.

“He was not”, Sherlock said. 

Mr. George Leeds stared at him.

“But you said…..” 

“I said that something he ingested that day brought on his madness”, Sherlock explained. “I did not say that that something came from his _main meal_. But since his attacks came when they did, then allowing for the digestion process he clearly ate something else either immediately before or very soon after that meal. I shall have to make further inquiries to find out what it was.” 

He turned to Mr. George Leeds.

“I have a feeling that your grandfather may have been given something in his room”, he said. “With your permission I would like to search it.”

“No!” Mr. George Leeds snorted. “That is a complete invasion of privacy!”

“We could have the old man moved to another room while he is under”, his brother Thomas said. 

“Doctor Spennymoor has only just sedated him”, I pointed out. “Moving him at this time would be unwise. It would be better to wait until tomorrow morning when it starts to wear off and he can be helped there at least partly under his own steam.”

“Then we shall return first thing tomorrow morning”, Sherlock said firmly. 

Mr. George Leeds scowled but said nothing.

ϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙ

“Do you think that you will find anything in the colonel's room?” I asked as the carriage took us back to the inn. He turned to look at me.

“John”, he said carefully, “I presume that you have brought your gun down with you?”

A pleasurable chill ran down my spine.

“Yes”, I said excitedly.

“Then tonight we are going hunting”, he said.

“What for?” I asked, puzzled.

“A murderer!”

I looked at him in confusion but clearly he would say no more. Damnation!

ϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙ

I was not surprised when our night trip took us back to the Hall. Sherlock went round the back and easily opened one of the windows there.

“I left some unlocked when I was here earlier”, he explained. “It pays to be prepared!”

We entered into a small sitting-room and Sherlock checked to see if the coast was clear before leading me out into the corridor. He had chosen a window near the back stairs so we were able to reach the first floor easily. Sherlock moved silently along – even though I was on tiptoes my own steps sounded loud in comparison – until he reached a small door.

“This is a store-cupboard”, he explained, “but it has a clear view of the colonel's door. We may have a long wait, my friend. I would assume that our poisoner would wish to wait until the small hours of the morning when they would be more certain that everyone else in the house was asleep before trying anything.”

I tried not to think about the fact that Sherlock had said 'they' rather than the usual 'he'. I had not considered – or perhaps had not wanted to consider – my.... Mrs. Leeds as a potential suspect.

My friend was proved right about our quarry and it was after three o' clock – luckily the light of the moon lit up a wall-clock in our line of sight - that we finally heard movement, someone edging along the corridor and trying to keep quiet. There was the faintest of creaks followed by the soft closing of the bedroom door. After what seemed like an age it opened again and this time the night walker was moving almost directly towards us. As they passed the large window in the corridor I could finally see their face. I had to work hard to suppress a gasp.

The figure passed on presumably to their own bedroom and after a few moments we made our own way silently from the house.

ϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙ

The following morning Sherlock and I made certain preparations before our visit to the Hall, arriving there shortly after nine o' clock. I was dispatched upstairs to make a quick check on the colonel's state of health and returned ten minutes later to find my friend in the room with the family.

“You still want to check the old boy's room today, Mr. Holmes?” Mr. Thomas Leeds asked.

“I no longer need to”, Sherlock said airily. “I know who the poisoner was, I know how it was done, and most importantly of all I have _proof!”_

They all stared at him in shock.

“How?” Captain Leeds asked suspiciously. “Where from?”

Sherlock looked at me and I solemnly handed him a plain white envelope. He walked over to the desk in the room and carefully laid down a sheet of paper from a writing pad before tipping out a small quantity of ash from the envelope, which he then resealed. We all watched him in fascination. Sherlock looked pointedly at Mr. Thomas Leeds.

“It was your own kindness that did it”, he said, so quietly that I could barely hear him. “You knew that your father was restricted in the things that he could eat, and you knew that he would resent not being able to have the same dessert as the rest of you. You arranged an extra little treat for him. He has a weakness for cherries – your staff told me - so you purchased some from the village shop that morning and gave them to him in his room after luncheon.”

Mr. Thomas Leeds had gone deathly pale.

“No!” he stammered. 

“I asked Doctor Spennymoor about his examination of the colonel after he sedated him”, Sherlock said, “and it was his acute observational skills that set me on the right track. He said that he was confused on one matter. He noted that when he administered him his medicine later that day his patient's teeth were stained as if he had been eating some sort of dark fruit, something that he had explicitly forbidden.”

Several pairs of eyes were now turned on Mr. Thomas.

“Tommy”, his elder brother said. “Why?”

Sherlock held up his hand for silence.

“I said that there was proof”, he said. “I am afraid that I had to undertake a small deception to get it. In my brief time in your father's room yesterday I found the remains of the cherry stalks in a small waste-paper basket. It struck me that if the murderer realized that this evidence might connect them to the crime, then they would have to remove it and swiftly. Last night one of you entered the colonel's room and retrieved those stalks, taking them back to their own room and placing them in their fireplace.”

He stood back from the desk. 

“I doubt that you are aware of it”, he said, “but science had progressed amazingly these past few years. It is now possible to examine the ash from a fire, and by the application of certain chemicals to deduce what was burnt in that fire. My second deception involved the good doctor here who as well as checking on your father visited the murderer's room and extracted these ashes from the fireplace there. These will prove who the murderer is.”

I held my breath. 

At that most untimely moment the door opened and a familiar figure ran into the room. It was little Ivan Leeds, my.... Captain Leeds's son. He smiled and ran over to his mother, and his path took him by his father and uncles. 

I saw the flash of a knife almost too late. Mr. George Leeds's face twisted beyond recognition in anger as he reached for the boy, clearly determined to use him to make his escape. I did not hesitate, snarling my fury and flying across the distance between us so fast that I knocked Mr. Thomas Leeds clean over and only narrowly avoided taking out Miss Warburton too. My hands fasted around the murderer's neck and I pressed him back into the fireplace, my eyes black with anger.

“Watson!”

It was Sherlock's voice as calm as ever, Sherlock's hand placed gently on my shoulder, and I slowly realized that I was actually trying to kill a fellow human being. My death-grip relaxed and I dimly heard Mrs. Leeds and her husband hustling her son from the room, and her brother-in-law summoning a servant then ordering them to fetch the local constable. All I could feel was Sherlock's steady presence, bringing me back to reality as the wretch that I had nearly strangled lay gasping beneath me.

ϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙ

“So how did Mr. George Leeds manage to poison the cherries?” I asked.

It was probably the first words that I had spoken since the attack. I had left the Hall in a cold silence and had not spoken all evening, trying to come to terms with the sheer fury that I had felt, the demon inside me that had gone for Mr. George Leeds intending to kill. So much for 'first do no harm'.

Sherlock looked at me curiously.

“I would presume that he called in on his brother, saw the cherries and guessed what he was planning to do with them”, he said. “As you said, the poison that we found later in Mr. George Leeds's room was incredibly potent; it would have taken him only a few minutes. He was most likely planning to use them in some other way but grasped at the chance to implicate his own brother.”

I nodded but said nothing. Sherlock sighed.

“John”, he said levelly, “you are too hard on yourself. You saw your own flesh and blood being threatened and you reacted accordingly. As we both know, everyone has a point at which they break, something which will make them react like that. There is nothing wrong in yours being your own flesh and blood.”

I shuddered and moved instinctively closer to him. It was a bitterly cold day for our drive back to Alresford Station and I felt numb inside. He did not hesitate before wrapping a comforting arm around me and we drove on in silence.

ϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙ

_Notes:_   
_† Fought on 29th March, 1644, it was then commonly called the Battle of Alresford but today is more commonly referred to as the Battle of Cheriton, near which village it was fought. In an attempt to destroy the ironworks in neighbouring Sussex a Royalist force pushed across Hampshire, but was defeated in a close-fought encounter. The battle was eclipsed by the famous one at Marston Moor a few months later but was important at the time, as it was the first significant victory for Parliament after a year and a half of fighting. Alresford today is the base of the Mid-Hants Railway, also known as the Watercress Line, which runs heritage steam trains some ten miles to connect with the railway network at Alton._

ϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙ


	7. Case 154: Mrs. Cecil Forrester's Domestic Complication

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> 1889\. A maid does not dust a writing-desk – yet the dust is gone! One of the strangest starts to a case yet brings a face from the past back into the dynamic duo's lives, and Mr. Randall Holmes briefly feels a complete boob and gets an unwelcome kickback (a certain doctor may or may not snigger at both those events).

_[Narration by Doctor John Watson, M.D.]_

Generally speaking the people who called on Sherlock for help passed only briefly through our lives. There were a few instances of what one might term 'peripheral players' putting in more than one appearance, but when it came to the instigators of our cases they came, they received the wisdom of my friend, then they left. Or were sent to face whatever justice they deserved; more than one criminal thought to use the great man's talents to clear themselves and always to their confoundment.

Many of my readers often asked why they never saw the people we helped again, and the main reason is a simple one. Yes, quite a number of our cases did start from someone that we had helped before or an acquaintance of theirs, but this in turn meant around double the number of people who had to give their consent before the story could be published; Sherlock and I both insisted that no innocent person could be harmed by our tales. For those involving children there was also a delay until they came of age and could decide whether or not they wished for things to be made public, so stories concerning the same character were rare, particularly in our earlier canons. But fortunately not in this case, which started in one of the strangest ways yet – over dust that was not there!

Finally and to answer a question posed when this story first appeared, the fashion for wives to use their husbands' Christian as well as their surnames was beginning to fade at this time although the lady who was the centre to this story still chose to do. Also, as readers of our earlier adventure with her will remember her husband had been involved in the Nonpareil Knave case which, while the family name had been cleared, had still made him decide to adopt his wife's name upon their marriage, something exceedingly rare back then as now.

ϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙ

We were both surprised one fine morning to receive a card sent up by a young lady who required our services, as the name was familiar to us.

“Mrs. Cecil Forrester”, I read. “Perhaps she has just called to say thank you?”

“I doubt that”, Sherlock said, looking pointedly at me. “I remember that she sent a most gracious letter expressing her thanks for our assistance, along with that _large_ slice of delicious wedding-cake.” He paused before adding, “you do remember the _large_ slice of delicious wedding-cake, do you not John? It was chocolate I seem to recall?”

I blushed.

“I thought that you would be back for a few days”, I said. “I did not wish for it to spoil.”

I winced. It sounded even weaker when I actually said it!

“I sent you a telegram that same morning”, he said archly. “I also like cake. Or at least I _would_ have liked it had 'someone' not eaten it all.”

He was doing that kicked puppy expression again, clearly trying to make me feel a complete heel for depriving him of the smallest sliver of sugary goodness. The trouble was, it worked! Every damn time! I sighed; it looked like I would be making a trip to the bakery in the very near future.

No I was _not_ whipped! Shut up!

ϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙ

Mrs. Cecil Forrester, née Miss Elizabeth Forrester, thanked us for seeing her and took a chair.

“I feel something of a fraud for imposing on you both”, she said. “Since you so graciously helped me and my dear Cecil I have read all your cases Mr. Holmes, and noted how you are often able to track down the guilty party from very little in the way of facts. But I doubt that you have ever started a case from so little as what I have today.”

“I am at your service”, Sherlock said. “Pray continue.”

She took a deep breath.

“It is about my maid, Millie. I think she may have told me an untruth. Or not.”

All right, that was unexpected. We both stared at her.

“You see, it is like this”, she said, wringing her hands. “Millie is what you might call slow-witted, but the one thing I would stake my reputation on is that she is as honest as the day is long. Yet.... either she has not been straight with me or something very strange is going on in our house.”

“What happened?” I asked.

“She may have dusted dear Cecil's writing-desk yesterday.”

We stared at her, but apparently that was it. She had been right; this really was very little to go on.

“Was there some reason why she should _not_ have dusted the desk?” I ventured.

“I explain things so badly”, she sighed. “You see, Cecil is wealthy enough not to have to work but his poor father, whose untimely death you so cleverly avenged, had made Arrangements that he have at least some experience of employment and had set him up as an army courier. We did not find that out until just before the wedding, and as it was in effect his last request Cecil felt obliged to honour it. It helped that it was only for a six-month trial period to see if he and the post were compatible; as things turned out he enjoyed the work greatly and was very happy to continue with it.”

“The armed forces employ special couriers to deliver important documents around the country”, Sherlock explained to me, “the sort of things that one could hardly entrust to the general post however ferociously they guard what is in their temporary possession. Mostly they use injured or retired soldiers, but it is not unknown for the sons of those in the military to be offered the job.”

 _(Because a later case of ours would include someone else in this sort of job, I should explain here that the Army naturally had different levels of importance attached to different documents. Those that Mr. Cecil Forrester bore in his work were deemed of average importance which was why he had been carrying them 'loose', while those in our later case (The Adventure Of The Blackmailed Paladin) were of the very highest importance which was why they in contrast were locked in a brief-case which was padlocked to the carrier. Mr. Forrester's documents were however still of note, and not the sort that the British government would have wished to have become read by its many enemies)._

Sherlock turned back to our guest. 

“So your husband's job involves a great deal of travelling?” he asked.

“It does”, she said. “We have moved to a small Sussex village called Three Bridges which is on the main railway line between London and Brighton, as that is highly convenient for him. He can be in London quickly when needed; sometimes he is asked for at very short notice.”

“Did you not wish to stay in Kent?” I asked. “That would surely have been nearer?”

“We had originally intended to”, she said, “but as I believe Cecil told you during the case involving his poor father, developers were interested in acquiring our road for redevelopment as a number of smaller properties. It happened that one of the other house owners wished to move for his health while another passed and left his house to relatives who did not wish to live there. We all of us met and it was decided to accept the developers' offer, particularly as they had included a most generous premium if we all sold at the same time. My own parents moved to the seaside town of Hove near Brighton, so they are only a short train journey from our house.”

“You like your new house?” Sherlock asked.

“It is wonderful!” she sighed. “Neither Cecil nor I really liked his father's house; it was far too large even though we do intend... well, we shall see. Our new place is half the size yet quite enough for us. I myself find housework most therapeutic but dear Cecil would have a fit if he thought that I did any, so we employed Millie from St. Faith's, a place the other side of Crawley which trains up girls. As I said she is a little slow-witted but I am very happy with her.”

Sherlock pressed his long fingers together.

“Are you sure”, he said eventually, “that your maid is telling the truth when she says that she did not dust your husband's writing-desk?”

“Quite sure”, she said firmly. “I suppose that I have no grounds for it other than a women's intuition but I do feel that she was being honest when I asked her. Also I do not see why she should lie, unless she felt worried that my question might lead to her being fired which is something that I would never do. Yet someone very clearly did dust that desk.”

“The maid dusts the rest of the house as normal?” Sherlock asked.

“She does”, our visitor said. “She does it quite well, although I sometimes go round after her when I am sure that Cecil will not be home early.”

I smiled at the mild wifely deceit.

“Does your husband ever use his desk to keep the letters or documents that he is called upon to carry?” Sherlock asked.

“He does not as a matter of principle”, she said. “But I have been thinking about that, and I suppose that there may be telegrams telling him where and when to take the documents. Might they be important?”

I began to feel slightly alarmed. Sherlock had that look on his face that usually presaged his saying something that his client would not like. Not like at all.

“Mrs. Forrester”, he said gravely, “I am beginning to feel that there is rather more to this case than meets the eye, and that it may be somewhat darker than my first impressions suggested. Let us assume for a moment that you are right, that your maid is honest, and that she did not dust that desk. Evidently neither you nor your husband did, yet the dust was gone.”

She looked at him in confusion. He sighed.

“Someone gained access to your home”, he said. “Someone searched your husband's desk, and only then realized that they had left fingerprints behind. The obvious way to eliminate them was to clean the desk; they could not know that it was not usually cleaned. How is it kept clean, by the way?”

I could see that he was distracting her from her rising fears, and it worked. 

“There is a place in the town of Crawley, a mile away, that offers a deep-clean service for properties”, she said. “It means vacating the place for a whole day every three months but that is not a problem. Cecil always empties his desk out completely before they come; he says that it stops him amassing too much clutter. They last came three weeks ago which was why I noticed the lack of dust.”

“Your husband does not dust the desk himself at all?” Sherlock asked.

She laughed at that.

“Cecil and a duster!” she smiled. “The dear boy would not know how to operate one!”

I strongly suspected that that last question had also been aimed at deflection, especially as Sherlock had on his best innocent look. The very slight nod was also a clue, the show-off!

“Could the desk not have been searched by a regular visitor to the house?” I asked.

“That is unlikely”, Sherlock said. “First, whoever searched the desk must have spent some time in so doing as they had to both do a thorough search and then clean it afterwards. A writing-desk is a large object and it has many drawers, let alone the likelihood of a secret one somewhere that must be both located and then opened. Second, there was the risk of their being disturbed by someone in the house. Where is the desk situated, please?”

“In a small room at the back of the house, all by itself”, Mrs. Forrester said. “The room has large glass windows on two sides and there is also a skylight so the light is excellent, especially after we had had the dead tree just outside removed. When we purchased the house the room was advertised as a small conservatory but because of the angle of the house it does not get that warm. However it also does not get that cold, which is why Cecil likes it.”

“The position also provides an excellent opportunity for an outsider to observe him there”, Sherlock sighed. “One thing. I am surprised that your husband, as a _youngest_ son, inherited his father's house.”

“William and Stephen are in fact Cecil's half-brothers”, she explained, “although they both look just like him. Colonel Upwood married twice and Cecil was the only son of the second union; the colonel's own money went to William although he split it evenly with Stephen, but the house was actually Cecil's mother's who had died just before the disaster last year. Perhaps thankfully in the circumstances, one might say. She had been the beneficiary of a rather unusual inheritance from her own father, a merchant by name of Mr. Silas Grimsdyke who traded out of the Docks. He was.... I think the politest term that I can use is 'a character'. He held himself to a very high moral standard and expected everyone else to do the same.”

“We should all aim so high”, Sherlock said with a smile. I thought of a recent trip to Hampshire when my own moral failings had been brutally exposed but said nothing, although I was sure he knew what I was thinking.

“Mr. Grimsdyke foresaw that later generations might not aim as high as he himself did”, she explained, “so he applied a covenant to his moneys which, as matters transpired, eventually went solely to his daughter and hence to Cecil. We were fortunate that Mark – Mr. Taylor, the brother of Stephen's wife Phyllis – is a lawyer and was able to explain things to us. The house and the income from the remaining money is ours as long as Cecil follows the terms laid down by his grandfather, which stated that if the person currently holding the estate committed any act which resulted in their serving time in a gaol then they forfeited it all to the next in line. The terms allowed Cecil to sell the house which he did, but he had to maintain the proceeds of the sale in a separate account and could only draw the interest from it. Although that is quite a tidy sum.”

“Ah”, Sherlock said. “Now we are getting somewhere. If your husband does breach the terms of that bequest then _cui bono?_ Who is next in line?”

“That would be Mr. Grimsdyke's great-niece Miss Katherine Newman-Rigby, Cecil's cousin”, she said. “She is the grand-daughter of Mr. Grimsdyke's sister Petra who married a Mr. Joseph Newman-Rigby. I believe that she is attempting to become a journalist, which I suppose is an acceptable profession for a lady in this day and age; she works part-time for her local newspaper and styles herself 'Bonnie' for some reason.”

I could hear the doubt in her voice as to that woman.

“Have you ever met her?” Sherlock asked. She shook her head.

“But I know that she lives not far from us”, she said. “In Horsham, some ten miles to the west of Three Bridges. A pleasant little town; we shop there on occasion.”

“Have you heard from your husband since his departure?” Sherlock asked.

“Just a short telegram to say that he had arrived safely”, she said. “It was sent from the Waverley Station, in Edinburgh; he always lets me know when he has arrived or is heading home. He is due back tomorrow, he said.”

Sherlock looked at her gravely.

“This has developed considerably from what was initially a matter of a questionable domestic”, he said heavily. “I do not like this at all. Watson, is there anything of import in the 'Times' this fine morning?”

I blinked at the apparent _non sequitur_ but obediently picked up the Thunderer and scanned the front page. Then I gulped.

“What is it?” Mrs. Forrester asked. 

I really did not want to tell her but I had no choice. I read the article in question:

“'A most strange and alarming incident occurred north of the Border last night. A Sussex gentleman Mr. Cecil Forrester was travelling from Stirling to Edinburgh in order to catch the Night Sleeper to London when he was brutally assaulted by three men in his compartment. There was no motive for the attack save that a package that Mr. Forrester was carrying was stolen along with his wallet. He is recovering in an Edinburgh hospital and hopes to resume his journey shortly'.”

Sherlock turned to a shocked Mrs. Forrester.

“I need you to do something for me”, he said urgently.

“Of course”, she said.

“I require that you spend at least one night in London and to only return home when I say”, he said, to the evident surprise of both of us. “I must be frank with you, Mrs. Forrester. I have reason to believe that there may be further developments in this case and I would rather you be away from your house for a while. I also need to put certain arrangements in place and it will take some little time.”

“I will do as you say”, she said, clearly worried.

“I shall arrange for your husband to be transferred to a London hospital so that you can visit him”, Sherlock said. “Watson, would you be able to take Mrs. Forrester to luncheon at the Temeraire? That will allow Guilford to find her a room for tonight.”

“Sir I could not....”

“ Guilford is my brother”, Sherlock cut in, “and I am sure that he will be delighted to help. It is high time that my some of my family put themselves about for me for a change. Doctor?”

I was a little put out that he did not want me with him while he arranged matters but smiled and offered the lady my arm.

ϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙ

“Of course I would have preferred to have you with me”, he told me later. “But as is sometimes the case I was meeting with one of my rather more disreputable acquaintances, who barely trusts me and would certainly not tolerate a second person. No matter how much of literary giant he is.”

I did not preen at that. Well, not much.

“I do hope that the lady's husband is innocent in all this”, I said. “He struck me as a decent boy the times we met.”

“I am sure that Mr. Cecil Forrester is totally innocent in this matter”, Sherlock smiled. He looked at his watch.

“Are we expecting someone?” I asked. It was getting late and I wanted to turn in for the night.

“I was thinking that we might be unlucky enough to see Randall”, he said. “But perhaps he is waiting for Mr. Forrester to be moved. The hospital in Edinburgh said that his injuries are not too serious so I have arranged a transfer for him to be in London by tomorrow, courtesy of the night sleeper.”

“Why would the lou... why would he care about that gentleman?” I said, cursing at my too late correction. His eyes twinkled at my calling his brother that but fortunately he did not comment on it. He yawned and stood up.

“Because he suspects Mr. Forrester of selling national secrets to a foreign government”, he said lightly. “Bed?”

He had gone before I could recover my senses. Not pouting, I joined him and got in beside him.

“You are just mean when you do things like that!” I grumbled while he wrapped himself around me. 

He just sniggered at me.

“Thank you for the cake”, he muttered.

I smiled.

“But I still think that the wedding-cake would have tasted nicer”, he said sadly.

I scowled.

“And stop pouting”, he muttered.

I gave up and just pulled him closer. Despite him being.... so him!

ϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙ

The following day we called on Mrs. Forrester and accompanied her to the hospital whence her husband had been taken. I expected Sherlock to have all sorts of questions for him but he only spent a few minutes making what seemed some dilatory inquiries before leaving the couple to talk. When we escorted the lady back to her hotel Sherlock asked some rather odd questions about her domestic arrangements, and after we had left her he immediately went to dispatch a telegram.

“What was that about?” I asked when he returned.

“I am planning for Mr. Forrester to return home on a certain day”, he said. “The hospital told me that they could release him tomorrow but for various reasons I wish him not to return to Sussex until Wednesday.”

He was clearly not going to elucidate me on his plans. I did not pout and he rewarded me by taking me back to Baker Street via my favourite restaurant in Trafalgar Square where I did not have two slices of chocolate gateau whatever anyone said.

_Finishing off someone else's dessert when they do not like it does not count!_

ϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙ

Wednesday morning found us bright and early – well, early – and we met the Forresters at Victoria Station. Mr. Forrester seemed more or less recovered after his ordeal and was clearly glad to be going home. Sherlock seemed preoccupied but chatted amiably with the couple during the journey to their home station. 

Three Bridges is an important junction station on the London to Brighton main line, where lines fork off to Crawley and Horsham in one direction and to East Grinstead and Tunbridge Wells in the other. Hence it was a ridiculously large station for such a tiny village although I doubted that it would remain a village for long. Railways had that effect on some places. 

Unfortunately the station also came with something that I could have well done without. A smarmy lounge-lizard, as annoying as ever and still breathing. So much for the power of prayer!

“I hope that you know what you are doing, Sherlock”, Mr. Randall Holmes said archly. “This is a matter of extreme national importance!”

“National importance?” Mr. Forrester asked, clearly alarmed. “Mr. Holmes, whatever is happening?”

“I promise to explain all when we reach your house”, Sherlock said soothingly. “Did you bring the men as I asked, Randall?”

“Yes, but.....”

“Then let us proceed!”

He swept from the station to where a cab had three policemen squashed into it. Sherlock and I took a second and the Forresters a third, leaving the obnoxious lounge-lizard to find his own transport (or hopefully get run over while trying). It was only five minutes' drive to a small secluded house set down a quiet cul-de-sac; I noted that a footpath at the end of the road continued to pass underneath the railway through a small arch and I could see the steam of a train heading towards London behind the trees on the embankment. 

The house itself was well-kept and the garden was pristine, a gardener working away on of the beds. Sherlock smiled for some reason as we approached and I also noted that while Mr. Randall Holmes's cab was right behind us the one with the policemen in it had fallen behind. I wondered why.

Mrs. Cecil Forrester welcomed us all to her home, and coffee and cake were served (she had indeed read my books about my friend's tastes in that department). Once Sherlock was safely re-caffeinated he sat back and began.

“I have to say”, he said, “that this has been one of the strangest of all my cases. It started with Mrs. Forrester's concerns about the honesty of a domestic servant and ends with an act of treachery to our great nation.”

Mr. Randall Holmes looked as if he was about to say something at that point but Sherlock gave him a sharp look and he did not. I did not smirk but there was something that sounded suspiciously like a poorly-suppressed giggle from Mrs. Forrester, probably because it was. I liked her even more.

“Now”, Sherlock said, “I am pleased to say that Mrs. Forrester was quite correct in her assessment of her maid's honesty. I am sorry madam, but I was obliged to make one or two of my own inquiries into the girl just to be on the safe side, and I am pleased to say that she is indeed all she pertains to be.” He paused before adding, “unlike someone else in this story.”

“What do you mean?” Mr. Forrester asked. Sherlock looked at his watch for some reason before continuing.

“If the maid did not dust your writing-desk”, he said, “then evidently someone else did. But who? We know that the house was cleaned from top to bottom three weeks before – I checked your cleaning company as well but they too were what they appeared – so evidently someone else had been in the house since then. Yet Mrs. Forrester said that she kept no other servants.”

He paused.

“I must admit that I was a little slow in seeing it”, he said regretfully. “But I got there. There were indeed no other servants in the house – _but there might be a gardener with access to it!”_

With perfect timing a shadow darkened the French doors and we all looked up. The three constables from earlier were there and in their implacable grip was the young gardener. Mr. Forrester opened the door to admit one of the policemen.

“Jessops?” he asked clearly astonished. “You are taking in our _gardener?”_

Sherlock sat back.

“The key to this matter was your inheritance from your grandfather Mr. Silas Grimsdyke”, he said. “It depended on your not acquiring a criminal record during your life, for should you have done so the money would have devolved to your cousin Miss Katherine Newman-Rigby. It was therefore in her interests that you did precisely that.”

“Her choice of journalism as her profession was quite deliberate. It allowed her to quickly acquire an understanding of how the modern media works and in particular it gave her access to some people involved in your own job, Mr. Forrester. She quickly saw that if you were to be found or even suspected of selling the papers that you carry to a foreign government, then the newspapers would be all over the story. But there had to be proof – which was, quite literally, where your gardener came in.”

He turned to Mrs. Forrester.

“While you were in London”, he said, “I am afraid that I took the liberty of breaking into your home. As I had expected there was a small door adjoining the room where the writing-desk was and, most critically, one of those raffia rugs which are used for corridors that experience heavy use. I then went upstairs and checked your husband's sock draw.”

“Why on earth would you do that?” Mr. Forrester asked incredulously.

“Because I wished to see your taste in footwear”, Sherlock smiled. “All your socks are either blue or black – excellent taste, by the way - but in the raffia rug I found at least three threads of _brown_ cotton, one of them close by the door leading out. Evidently someone had come through that portal and that person had doffed their shoes to avoid detection. Unfortunately for them they had forgotten about the rug.”

I looked instinctively at the gardener's rather small feet. Sure enough the socks were brown.

“This is how it happened”, Sherlock said. “Miss Newman-Rigby calculates that few things would draw suspicion against Mr. Forrester more than an attack on himself, followed by the 'chance discovery' of copies of the papers he carries in his own writing-desk. She hires three thugs to steal the documents that Mr. Forrester is carrying while in Scotland and, in a stroke of genius, at the same time visits several embassies of powers hostile to Great Britain suggesting that she has access to some 'useful information' and asking how much might they pay for it. Naturally this quickly reaches the long ears of my brother who reasons, incorrectly, that the attack was staged and that the husband and wife are in on this ramp together. Wrong again, Randall.”

His brother scowled at him.

“I asked you, Mrs. Forrester, as to what days your gardener worked”, Sherlock said, “and then arranged to delay your husband's return to one of those days. My brother, I am sure, had had you closely watched in case you suddenly abandoned your husband to make a desperate dash for the Continent and your foreign paymasters!”

Our hostess turned and glared angrily at Mr. Randall Holmes, who flinched. I would have done so too, being on the end of that look.

“So Jessops here is working for Miss Newman-Rigby”, the lounge-lizard said, looking decidedly uncomfortable at the way things had turned out. “I shall be sending some men to her address before the day is out. Horsham I think you said, Sherlock?”

His brother shook his head and walked through the French doors to where the two policemen were holding the gardener. 

“Ladies and gentlemen”, he said with a flourish, “allow me to present... Miss Katherine Newman-Rigby!”

“I do not believe it” his brother scoffed rising to his feet and crossing to join him. “That is a.....”

He had placed his hand on the gardener's chest, then stepped back in shock. The two policemen might have been holding her arms but she had her legs free and kicked right up.... there. The lounge-lizard shrieked in agony (Mrs. Forrester collapsed in a fit of giggles while I had to cough for some inexplicable reason) and the gardener made a bid to get free but the third policeman rapidly rejoined his colleagues and they were soon dragging her away in handcuffs.

“My own cousin tried to frame me?” Mr. Forrester asked, clearly shocked at the turn of events. 

Sherlock nodded, with what was clearly a determined effort not to smile at his brother's moaning on the floor. I was making no such effort. I suppose that as a doctor I should have..... whatever.

“In your desk you will find reasonably credible facsimiles of what pertain to be the sort of documents that you usually deal with”, my friend said, glancing reprovingly at me. “The government would of course have refused to reveal any details of them on the grounds of national security so I am sure that a court would have believed claims of your treachery. Yet all is well, because your wife was brave enough to approach me over what seemed at the time a trivial domestic complication. There is a lot said about a women's intuition, but sometimes it turns out to be quite accurate.”

ϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙ

Yes, I did get the address of the bakery whence Mrs. Forrester had ordered her wedding-cake. Yes, I did buy another cake for Sherlock. Yes, a whole cake. No, I only did it because I was a considerate and caring friend who was absolutely not whi....

He is not-smirking again, the bastard! Harrumph!

ϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙ


	8. Interlude: Bacon

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> 1888\. Breakfast at 221B.

_[Narration by Mr. Sherlock Holmes, Esquire]_

What with all the trials and tribulations that John and I had gone through of late, I returned to the house one day feeling exhausted. On top of everything I had had more dealings with the unpleasant Randall, whom I could see I was going to fall out with majorly very soon (I really wished that I had brought a photographer for the conclusion of my recent dust-themed case which had been decidedly painful for my irritating brother). 

I sighed as I entered 221B, then smiled in relief as I saw that I had arrived just in time for lunch. Even better, it was bacon sandwiches! 

Come to that...

“I do love how you manage to get my bacon so crispy, Mrs. Hudson”, I smiled to our landlady. “Although I have noticed that John always seems to receive more on his plate than I do....”

She fixed me with what was most definitely a look. I thought quickly of that pistol, and had there not been bacon in the vicinity I might have suddenly remembered an urgent trip to the post-office. Or Outer Mongolia. 

She shook her finger at me.

“I know full well that you take most of the poor doctor's bacon every morning, Mr. Holmes”, she said reprovingly. “That is why he always gets more to start with; he is lucky to end up with any at all!”

I stared at her in surprise.

“He told you that?” I asked. She shook her head.

“He always leaves a small piece of fat from each rasher that he eats”, she said, “so I know how many I send up and I know just how many he actually gets. Honestly, you and that kicked puppy look of yours!”

I blushed fiercely. I... liked John of course, but come on! Bacon!

“Perhaps I might try to leave him some more in future?” I suggested.

She snorted in disbelief, and to be honest I did not blame her.

“Why not swim the Atlantic instead?” she quipped as Sarah took the delicious bacon sandwiches up the stairs (I was sure that I heard her snigger too). Our landlady rolled her eyes at me before returning to her room, and I followed the delicious bacon up to our room.

ϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙ

I think that it was very generous of me to let John keep all the bacon in his sandwiches.

Mostly all.

Come on! Bacon!

ϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙ


	9. Interlude: Testing Times

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> 1888\. And then the deluge.....

_[Narration by Mr. Lucifer Garrick, Esquire]_

I knew that Benji had been worried over Bertha ever since Peter's birth last June, and that in some way she had not been 'right'. At first I just wondered if his wife was after some time not expecting for a change, but when we had reached the end of the year and she was still not pregnant, the behemoth was clearly panicking. So he worked out his panic on me which was downright unfair; I was so wrecked that I was unable to escape when Sherlock's mother came round with another of her terrible stories. I mean, using electricity with the wires attached there†.....

For my own sanity as well as for my poor, abused backside, something needed to be done (all right, apart from me). Sherlock's friend John recommended a specialist he knew and I arranged to have him examine Bertha. He recommended a further three months to let her body recover, and I also paid for her and two female friends to have a luxury week at a spa in Kent as a break from her job, as he had said that that would help her recover. I also paid for it as that allowed Benji to give me his undivided attentions, which very nearly had me calling the specialist again to see if he took male patients!

Fortunately John's friend Peter Greenwood came to my aid by suggesting that I book the behemoth in for a scientific experiment, where they wanted to test what happened to men who were deprived sex for a period of time. That meant I got to recover and Bertha got her guaranteed peace and quiet, plus for Benji and his ever-growing family the pay was phenomenal for and hour and a half probing and answering questions each week. It seemed a perfect solution.

I should have known that there would be a catch. Benji came off the course in the second week of March but had to wait another week before Bertha had the all clear to resume his populating the city with little Jackson-Gileses. So he came round to me, a horny behemoth who had been denied sex for six whole weeks.

I had to take a whole week off work as a result! Hot damn!

ϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙ

_Notes:_   
_† 'Electric Avenue'._

ϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙ


	10. Case 155: The Adventure Of The Montpensiers

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> 1889\. A friend in need is a friend indeed – but sometimes friends can be less than helpful, as one character in this story finds out the hard way.

_[Narration by Doctor John Watson, M.D.]_

It was with a particular gruesome sense of timing that this case, or at least Sherlock's involvement in it, lasted the length of All Fools’ Day for what seemed to have been meant merely as a practical joke (or set of jokes) turned out to have had a rather more deadly intent. And a person who set out with the best of intentions to help someone ended up helping them to get killed!

Sherlock had just finished a small but tiring case where his advice on solving a crime had been ignored, with the result that the criminal had actually managed to get on a ship bound for the United States. Fortunately they had been intercepted in Ireland – coincidentally at Queenstown, the scene of our sole Irish case with Mr. Charlie Peace and... a certain leering medical personage - but the affair (and predictably both the subsequent government cover-up and the ingratitude of a certain lounge-lizard brother) had left my friend demoralized, and the previous night he had just wanted us to cu.... to hold each other in a manly-like manner. As I had precisely zero chance of ever refusing him anything we had done just that, and he looked all the better for it this morning. Especially after I had fetched him his first coffee in bed, which had earned me one of those wonderfully gummy smiles of his.

“We shall be receiving a guest soon”, he yawned as he stumbled to the table, where I quickly forked half my bacon onto his plate. I do not know why Mrs. Hudson did not just give him a bigger pile anyway, though I suspected that he rather liked the idea of me giving up food for him. He must have known that I would have given up so much more.

My conscience was sniggering at me for some reason. Strange.

“Do they have a case for you?” I asked hopefully.

“I have no idea”, he said, munching at what had to be close on half a pig. “All I can tell you is that our visitor will be female, about twenty to twenty-five years of age, have red hair and will probably be wearing a red….” - he concentrated for a moment – “no, a _burgundy_ dress.”

I stared at him in surprise as he was hardly attired to receive company. He had his dressing-gown on over his terrible fluffy bunny pyjamas, and as per usual he could have posed for the left-hand one of those irritating 'before and after' advertisements. His appearance when we were out and about may have improved, but not this side of our room's door. And yet the bloody maids still simpered at him every time one of them came up!

No, I was not jealous! The very idea! I waited for him to finish his breakfast before speaking.

“When is this lady coming?” I asked hoping that a) he would get dressed beforehand and b) stop with the annoying not-smirk. The one time before when he had absent-mindedly received a client in such attire, she too had simpered at him in a way most unbecoming a duchess. A married duchess. In her seventies!

“Oh yes”, he said. “I suppose that I had better change.”

I spluttered into my coffee as he rose and walked back into my room, stripping off his dressing-gown and top as he went. Honestly!

ϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙ

A mercifully long sixteen minutes later Mrs. Hudson showed up our visitor. She was exactly as Sherlock had described and, I supposed, quite attractive.

“My name is Miss Emma Owens”, the lady said and I detected a faint Welsh accent as she spoke. “I come from Llandilo in the county of Carmarthenshire but for the past six years have found a home with a family friend in Maida Vale, not far from here. Her name is Mrs. Mabel Montpensier and despite her name she too has Welsh origins.”

“Pray what brings you to our house today?” Sherlock asked politely.

The lady reddened.

“It is all rather _macabre_ , sirs”, she said. “Before this morning I had considered what had happened thus far to be trivial, but if I am right then events may have a darker and possibly dangerous edge to them. I fear that we may even be looking at attempted murder, so I hoped very much that you might look into matters for me.”

“What events, pray?” Sherlock asked.

“It all began when someone started playing jokes on Mabel.”

I bit back a caustic remark. First a careless maid (all right, that _had_ turned out to be something rather more serious) and now a practical joker. We were getting a strange set of clients lately although I supposed that that was better than murderesses, corrupt coppers and ghosts from the past. Either way I still had to endure visits from the leering Mr. Benjamin Jackson-Giles, Mr. Garrick's lover, who should have been restricting himself to screwing the government in the same way that it all too frequently screwed us. Sherlock's poor cousin had been unable to manage the stairs on his last visit and Mrs. Hudson had had to let us borrow a downstairs room; I would have commented at her sniggering but the pistol was also kept downstairs so I did not.

I was not jealous of Mr. Garrick either, for the record.

“I take it that these jokes have a sinister air to them?” Sherlock asked, smiling at me for some strange reason, “otherwise they would not concern you so much?”

The lady took a deep breath.

“I had better start at the beginning”, she said. “My mother died seven years ago and for a year after that I lived with my father, who was a miner. Then he was killed in an underground explosion and my prospects looked bleak indeed as we did not even own our own home. However my late mother had, bless her, planned for just such a catastrophe. Mabel was an old school friend of hers who had married a London merchant and moved here over a decade ago. He has done exceptionally well for himself so she thought nothing of my mother’s request to take me on. I was sixteen at the time and utterly alone in the world, so I owe my dear friend everything.”

“Mr. Montpensier is French?” I asked.

“Jackson is actually Scottish”, she said, “but he has Huguenot ancestors about whom he goes on at _great_ length!”

I smiled at that.

“Apart from the servants, does anyone else live at the house?” Sherlock asked.

“Not exactly”, she said. Seeing our confused looks she continued. “Jackson's brother William spends much of his time there, although he does have a place of his own somewhere in town. He once tried to pay court to me but he is nearly forty years of age and _quite_ unpleasant. He is also one of those Men who are far too full of themselves.”

I could hear the capital in that damning noun. I tried not to think that I myself was less than three years short of that same milestone, and it did not help when Sherlock shot me a knowing look. Mind-reading as per usual!

“Mr. William Montpensier is an older brother?” he asked with an irritatingly knowing smile.

“Yes, she said. “Jackson is eight years younger than him. I understand that their mother had many children but that only four survived. The other brother Peter – the eldest - emigrated to the United States somewhere, and their younger sister Margaret married someone down in Kent. I do not know any details but for some reason neither Jackson nor William approved of the match.”

Sherlock thought for a moment.

“Mr. Jackson Montpensier has money but his brother does not?” he said at last.

Our guest looked surprised but nodded.

“Yes”, she said. “Mabel's father was, I am afraid, one of what they call 'the old school'; he was certain that no woman could ever manage her own finances, so Jackson has all her money which is I understand quite a lot. I might add however that she is fine with this, and although she does not spend lavishly she does like her comforts as she calls them. William, I am afraid, is terrible with money which I suppose is why he is so often round looking for a free meal.”

I drew a small cat in the margin of my notes, and of course got a sharp look from someone who could not possibly have seen them from where he was sitting.

“How old are you yourself, may I ask?” Sherlock asked, shaking his head at me in a way that was just annoying.

“Twenty-two”, our guest said. 

My friend hesitated.

“Miss Owens”, he said carefully, “I am going to ask you several questions about the incidents concerning your friend. Some may seem irrelevant, some even impertinent, but if we are to help you then we must have _all_ the facts. When was the first incident that has so concerned you?”

The lady extracted a small diary from her bag. My opinion of her rose slightly; I did admire organized people especially living as I did with a human tornado _and damnation if he was not looking at me again!_

“March the eleventh”, she said, addressing the resident mind-reader. “It seemed so trivial at the time. Amongst the letters sent to the house was one that contained some sort of chemical or other. Mabel of course checked the letters – the first post nearly always comes after Jackson has left for work - and soon after she opened the letter she found that her hand was stained bright yellow. The odd thing was that the letter was supposed to be for next door, number eight. Our postman does not normally make that sort of mistake.”

“Did your friend keep the letter?” Sherlock asked.

“She did”, our visitor said. “Fortunately I am studying to be a chemist, and because I was curious I managed to snip a corner off and took it to my laboratory for testing. The chemical is of the sort readily available in those terrible joke shops, totally harmless, and the stain washed out with soap and water. It was only in light of what happened next that I came to you.”

Sherlock seemed puzzled over something but eventually asked what that event was.

“It happened exactly one week later, on the eighteenth”, she said. “We had used to have our morning papers delivered but the local shop had some boys who were terribly unreliable and Mabel liked to read her news at the same time every day, so she took to collecting them during her morning constitutional. Sometimes if Jackson rose early then he would go and collect them before leaving for work but that was rare. This however was one of those days and he also picked up Mabel’s monthly magazine. Someone had placed a giant spider inside it, one of those that spring up when the book or magazine is opened. It was a day when we had William round – one of far too many in my opinion – and he opened the magazine. He got a terrible shock.”

I wondered at that. A gentleman reading a _lady's_ magazine?

“Does Mrs. Montpensier have a weak heart at all?” Sherlock asked. Our guest’s eyes widened.

“I see what you mean”, she said, clearly alarmed. “You are suggesting that someone is trying to scare her to death?”

“Possibly”, Sherlock said, “although being scared to death is a highly inefficient way of murdering someone. However, I have more than once seen it used as a cover for something more effective and less detectable. Since these incidents always seem to be happening on a Monday am I to assume that your friend was again targeted again one week ago?”

She nodded.

“It was something that seemed quite inconsequential”, she said. “She was resting in the park by the house when someone fired a gun without warning. It caused quite a stir but by the time a local policeman had arrived, whoever had done it had fled.”

“That sounds very dangerous”, I offered.

“One of those fake guns with exploding caps, the sort children use, was found in the bushes nearby”, she said. “But I was with her at the time and I was sure that the gunshot was real.”

“So to today’s incident”, Sherlock said. “It must have been serious to have made you come to seek our help.”

She nodded and extracted a small medicine-bottle from her case. It seemed to contain some sort of wine.

“This morning I went downstairs to the breakfast room, and was about to start eating when I chanced to look at the glass decanter that contains Mabel's favourite Madeira. The more I looked, the more that I was sure there were some traces of white powder on the surface.”

“What did you do?” Sherlock asked.

“I checked with the servants”, she said, “and was told that my friend would not be down for at least another half-hour. I knew that to be true; she likes to read her book in bed for a time upon waking and I had just seen the maid taking her coffee up to her. Fortunately I knew that there was a spare bottle in the cupboard below the decanter so I emptied most of the contents away and kept some which I have brought with me today. Then I took the decanter into the small water closet next door and washed it thoroughly before refilling it.”

“You acted most sensibly”, Sherlock praised. “I presume that you are on your way to your laboratory in order to test it?”

“I am”, she said, “although I rather fear that I already know what I will find.”

I had the same feeling.

ϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙ

I would not normally have described Sherlock as a man of action, but as soon as Miss Owens was gone he rushed to put on his coat. 

“This case is serious?” I asked following suit. He nodded.

“Deadly”, he said. “I fear that someone's life may be in danger, although hopefully since the strikes seem thus far to have been one week apart we may hope for a period of grace before the next attack. Except….”

“Except what?” I asked, worried.

“The criminal will have fully expected their plan this morning to have succeeded and for their target to now be lying dead at the breakfast table”, he said. “When they find out that they are not, they may reason that someone, quite possibly Miss Owens who they will know took her meal there earlier, has learned of their design.”

“She too is in danger?” I gasped. 

“You know how the criminal mind works, John”, he said. “It is the old 'Macbeth' story; a first murder is difficult as one has to overcome those scruples that most people have, but subsequent ones such as to eliminate those getting close to the truth become much easier. The murderer surely knows that Miss Owens is a scientist and might be able to bring their crime home to them.”

“But Mr. Jackson Montpensier is at work”, I pointed out.

“I did not say that it was the husband!”

ϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙ

The Montpensiers lived in a small but well-kept house in Tavistock Square, a little way south of Euston Railway Station. Our cab drew to a halt outside it and Sherlock leaped out almost before it had come to a halt, bouncing up the stairs and rapping sharply on the door. I paid the cabbie and followed at a slightly more sedate pace, and we were admitted to a small waiting-room while a maid took our cards to the lady of the house. 

I have to say that Mrs. Mabel Montpensier was not what I was expecting. She was in her late thirties, self-assured, tending to stoutness and almost matronly. She clearly viewed us with suspicion, but when Sherlock explained the purpose of our visit she smiled in understanding.

“Dear Emma”, she said fondly. “I am afraid that she does tend towards the dramatic at times. I fear that she was over-reacted to a number of silly pranks, one of which was played on poor Bill.”

“The spider in a magazine destined for your good self”, Sherlock reminded her. “What about the gunshot?”

“That was just one of those children's toys with the caps”, she said scornfully. “The policeman found it later and showed me. Besides, who would wish to harm me? Dear Jack does all my financial affairs for which I am very grateful, and he has provided for me if the worst happens.”

Sherlock had that irritating look on his face which told me that a) something very important had just been said, b) there was not a chance in hell that I would ever be able to work out what, and c) I would very soon be witnessing an annoying not-smirk in the immediate vicinity. He nodded thoughtfully.

“Indeed”, he said. “In this case I think that you are quite correct, Mrs. Montpensier. I shall of course reassure Miss Owens that her fears are quite groundless.”

Our hostess smiled and we bowed ourselves out.

ϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙ

“So”, I said as we were driven away. “No case after all.”

“There Is a case all right”, he said. “The unfortunate Mrs. Montpensier is indeed in some peril, despite what she says.”

“From whom?” I demanded. 

He smiled and shook his head.

“We are going to Miss Owens's laboratory”, he said. “I would like to know the results of her analysis of that decanter although I am sure that I can guess them well enough, as can you. Plus there is something that I need to advise her of as regards her own safety.”

I glared at him but clearly he would tell me nothing. As he was now watching the passing traffic I looked the other way and ventured a small scowl.

“Stop pouting, John.” 

_Damn reflective glass!_

ϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙ

I was not surprised when we met Miss Owen and she told us the powder found in the decanter was a deadly poison, and that there had been sufficient quantities that a small glass would have been enough to have killed someone.

“It was quite fortunate that Mabel came down late that day”, she said, folding her laboratory coat away. “She had been out at a party the night before. The poison had been left long enough that some had begun to precipitate, which was why I noticed it.”

“I rather fear that your surmise may have been correct”, Sherlock told her, “and that your friend is indeed in some danger. Although not of the immediate type. Miss Owens, I need you to do something for me.”

“Of course”, she said, wide-eyed.

“Send a telegram to your house saying that you have to work exceedingly late, and be sure not to return home until after nine o' clock or when we send for you.”

“Why?” she asked.

“Because I rather fear that something will happen this evening”, Sherlock said firmly, “and I do not wish to endanger _your_ life as well as that of your friend. The doctor and I will be at hand to make sure things go well, so do not fear.”

“What about dear Mabel?” she asked.

“Your friend's life is safe tonight”, Sherlock promised her.

I thought his phrasing odd, but as usual it turned out there was a good reason that he chose those particular words.

ϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙ

It was nearly a quarter past six in the evening. Sherlock and I were in the small park around which Tavistock Square lay, watching the cream-coloured house gradually darken in the gathering gloom. A cab pulled up outside and a stout fellow with blond flyaway hair got out.

“The husband?” I asked. Sherlock shook his head.

“Mr. William Montpensier”, he said. “Scrounging another free dinner at his brother's expense.”

“I would wager that Mrs. Montpensier does not like that!” I observed. 

He said nothing and we continued to wait. It was nearly dark half an hour later when a second cab drew up and disgorged another man, dark-haired, younger and much thinner than the first. Mr. Jackson Montpensier, presumably. He almost ran into the house which I thought odd, then silence returned to our side of the square broken only slightly by the occasional cab passing down Woburn Place on the other side of the park. It was surprisingly peaceful for so close to the centre of London.....

Suddenly there was a gunshot from inside the house, followed by a loud scream. Sherlock immediately charged out from our hiding-place and was at the door in less than thirty seconds, leaving me some way behind. His frantic banging did not immediately summon a footman, but eventually one came and pulled the door back slightly to peer cautiously out at us both. The next moment he was sat on his backside owing to Sherlock having forced the door open and run into the hall.

There was a small cluster of staff around one of the doors on the right and Sherlock forced his way through them with me now close behind. It was one of those curious rooms with a half-wall protruding a little way across from the centre of two opposite walls making in effect two rooms out of one. Mr. Jackson Montpensier lay bleeding on the floor in one half while beyond the half-walls his brother William was comforting his sister-in-law. I attended the injured man while Sherlock muttered something to one of the staff who left with an impressive turn of pace for someone so elderly, before turning back to the two people before him.

“What happened?” he demanded.

Mrs. Montpensier looked too stunned to say anything but her brother-in-law more than made up for things with his own volubility. 

“Jack tried to shoot her!” he said, sounding incredulous at his own statement. “Came in and demanded to see us and when Mabel and I asked what was wrong he accused her of.... of seeing another man!”

The woman let out a small moan. 

“Calm yourself”, Sherlock said soothingly. “Everything makes sense now.”

“It does?” Mr. William Montpensier sounded dubious, to say the least. Sherlock nodded.

“Of course”, he said. “Your brother's suspicions, however unfounded, must have been aroused some weeks back hence the run of practical jokes – the letter, the spider, the false gunshot, the poison. When the last of these failed to achieve its ends he turned to cold-blooded murder.”

I had by this time assessed that there was nothing to be done for my patient, and asked one of the servants to fetch a sheet in order to cover his body.

“I have summoned my good friend Sergeant Baldur”, Sherlock told Mrs. Montpensier, “and I am sure that he can deal with matters swiftly and discreetly. I think it would be best if we go elsewhere now.”

“That would be good”, she said faintly, although she went pale again as he saw the sheet being brought in. Fortunately she and her brother-in-law were able to leave through the far door, Sherlock following them.

ϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙ

Sergeant Baldur arrived an impressive fifteen minutes later and Sherlock ushered him in to where Mr. William Montpensier was sat with his still shaking sister-in-law. 

“This has been a short but challenging case”, my friend said. “Sergeant, I think it would be a good start if you would start by arresting the killers.”

Mr. Montpensier looked up sharply.

“Killers?” he asked, “More than one?”

“Yes”, Sherlock said. “You. Both of you.”

You really could have cut the silence in that room with a knife. As Sherlock had forewarned me my hand tightened on the revolver in my pocket. I did not want to ruin my jacket by firing through it, but I would if necessary. Mr. William Montpensier laughed.

“What the blazes are you talking about?” he demanded.

“Your brother was quite right in his suspicions that his wife was seeing another man”, Sherlock said smoothly. “What he did not know was that the other man was his own kith and kin namely _you_ , sir. He came home and challenged his wife over it, and you shot him.”

“You are mad!” the man shouted.

“The practical jokes were your idea to suggest that your brother was mentally unbalanced”, Sherlock continued. “That one of them ended up affecting you made me immediately suspicious; that was something I would have expected the perpetrator of those acts to have done in order to try to draw attention away from themselves.”

The man had fallen silent. Mrs. Montpensier gulped.

“However, your evil scheme misfired this morning”, Sherlock said. “As you had planned, Miss Owens discovered the poison in the decanter and duly took some away to have it tested. What you had not bargained for was her bringing us in on the case and when your partner in crime alerted you to our visit, you panicked. This afternoon you sent your brother an anonymous note openly stating his wife's infidelity, which led to him racing home and confronting her. Then you shot him.”

“Lies!” Mr. William Montpensier hissed. “There is not a shred of proof!”

“Really?” Sherlock said dryly. “Well, why do we not ask..... _your brother?”_

The door opened at that precise moment and I bit back a smile. There was the supposedly slain Mr. Jackson Montpensier, looking a little ruffled and with a large red stain on his white shirt but definitely alive. His brother gasped in horror.

“You could not resist”, Sherlock said softly. “You pulled your gun on your own blood, told him what you had done with his own wife, then shot him. Unfortunately I foresaw that you might do just that and arranged for one of my friends to bump into you on your way home. He is one of the finest pickpockets in London and was able to replace your gun with one loaded with blanks. I had told your brother of your evil scheme and we fitted him up with a fake blood patch which he could activate once you had tried to kill him.”

Mrs. Montpensier suddenly burst into speech.

“You fool!” she snapped at her brother-in-law and – ugh! - lover. “I told you that it would never work....”

He silenced her with a slap right across her face and the next moment Sergeant Baldur hauled him from the room, two of his constables dragging his crying associate behind him.

ϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙ

Postscriptum: Mr. William Montpensier and his sister-in-law paid the appropriate price for their actions, despite the efforts of their lawyers to try to blame each other as the instigator of their foul and treacherous acts. Mr. Jackson Montpensier perhaps understandably moved out of a house with so many bad memories and decamped to another part of London, where he also understandably remained a single man for the rest of his days. Very fairly however he first settled half of his late wife's money on Miss Owens, who later married a fellow scientist and rose to become one of the leading lights of her profession.

ϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙ


	11. Case 156: The Adventure Of The Bishopgate Jewel

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> 1889\. A jewel from two centuries ago reappears to be swiftly followed by several potential owners. And then by several dead bodies. But the clues are there....

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> TW: Minor character deaths (plural)

_[Narration by Doctor John Watson, M.D.]_

There was often an element of the _outré_ in many of the cases that Sherlock undertook, but surely few were stranger than the matter of the Bishopgate Jewel. It began in south-east London and ended in an English country house where what happened was so utterly bizarre, I felt compelled to withhold publication on the unique grounds that I truly believed people would think that I had made the whole thing up! Fortunately the ‘reappearance’ of the jewel and its new owner's willingness to recognize my friend's role in what happened has persuaded me that this most bizarre of case should be added to the Sherlock canon.

It was an early May morn in ‘Eighty-Nine when, unusually, I breakfasted alone. A cousin of Sherlock’s on his mother's side of the family had died and, as he had been inconsiderate enough to live in the county of Linlithgowshire west of Edinburgh, my friend had unwillingly agreed to spend two nights on sleeper trains, attending the funeral on the intervening day. He would be back in King’s Cross in less than two hours' time and I planned on meeting him there then bringing him back to Baker Street to celebrate his return with coffee and bacon. I could possibly have done without Mrs. Hudson’s raised eyebrows or her niece’s smirk as I left Baker Street although to be fair our landlady had already summoned me a cab – I had been too much of a dither to plan that far ahead – so I just smiled in gratitude and promptly fell over my feet as I tried to operate the complex mechanics of 221B’s front door. It was a little unfair of both ladies to snigger at that point and I all but fell down my steps as I tried to escape with my dignity intact. I may not have been quite one hundred per cent successful in that aspiration.

The roads seemed even worse than usual that day and I began to fret as the cab moved ever more slowly towards King’s Cross Station. Heavens, I could have gotten out and walked faster! At last however we drew up outside the impressive terminus and having paid the driver I scrambled up the steps and onto the concourse. There was one of those modern display boards with departures and arrivals on it, and I scanned it anxiously for Sherlock's train.

Arrived. Five minutes ago. My heart sank.

“Hullo, John.”

I spun round and sure enough there was the blue-eyed genius, smiling warmly at me. Lord but I so badly wanted to hug him even though we were in public.

I did it anyway. Whatever curious looks we may have received from passers-by, I did not care. I had missed my man so much!

ϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙ

We were heading back to Baker Street in a contented silence when he spoke.

“I have been engaged on a case.”

I looked at him in surprise.

“How?” I asked. “You were only gone two days.”

He smiled.

“I too find trains fertile ground for my endeavours”, he said. “Although fortunately I managed to avoid finding a dead body in the next but one sleeper - unlike 'someone' that I could mention!”

I scowled. That was just mean; it was not my fault that someone chose my train to commit murder on!

“I went to the dining-car for breakfast just after six this morning”, he said, “and besides mourning the fact that their bacon is absolutely terrible, I met a Reverend George Green. He is the rector of St. Edward's Church, not far from London Bridge Station. Have you seen the 'Times' this morning?”

I blushed slightly.

“I have not”, I said. “I, um, left in a bit of a hurry this morning.”

His eyes twinkled in understanding and I gave silent thanks that he loved me enough not to tease me about that. Although my manliness was likely beating its breast in a darkened room somewhere while wondering just how to disown me.

“In a rare move to try to salvage its appalling reputation”, he said, “the South Eastern Railway Company is widening the approach to its London Bridge station†. As part of those plans they purchased a terrace of four houses which they recently set about knocking down. In one of them they discovered a metal box hidden beneath a floor stone. A New Testament found inside it dated the item from 1687, the year before the Glorious Revolution. There was one large property on the site then and it is known that the family who owned it, the Fontenoys, were Catholics and that they fled into exile along with King James the Second and Seventh after that monumental event.”

I nodded. At least I knew my history.

“The land was church property until quite recently”, he said, “and the main road between London and Dover passed close by it before it was moved a short distance to the south upon being widened. It was the first place of import along the road and there was originally an archway athwart the old road called the Bishop Gate, as each new Bishop of London had to pass through it during their accession to acknowledge their submission to the Archbishop of Canterbury.”

“More importantly the box also contained a jewel, similar in some ways to the famous Alfred Jewel although approximately two-thirds that wonder's size. Highly ornate, engraved gold and silver around a large blue sapphire, it is worth many thousands of pounds regardless of its history. As you may imagine, where there is money there are many people who claim ownership of it.”

“Of course”, I said. “Starting with the Church, I suppose?”

He nodded.

“The Church of England advances a claim that as the family owned the buildings but not the land, the jewel is therefore theirs”, he said. “There is a Catholic branch of the family who have since returned to England and a Protestant branch of closer descent who remained here; two members of each. Not forgetting the lucky fellow who held it briefly as he purchased it on behalf of the Railway Company of which he is a director, a Doctor William Black. Although the Church is disputing as to whether he purchased the rights to what was _under_ the house.”

“It sounds a complete mess”, I said. “Only the lawyers will be happy, with their fat fees from all sides. Yet they expect you to sort it out?”

“I am invited down to spend the coming weekend at Doctor Black’s country retreat, Weatherford, in central Devonshire.”

“Oh.” 

My face fell. At least until I caught the glint in those blue eyes.

“Of course you are invited too”, he smiled. “Did I forget to mention that?”

I glared at him. Just for that he was only getting half my bacon when we got back.

ϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙ

All right, one kicked puppy look and he got the whole lot! Just why had I missed him again?

ϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙ

Our Devonshire excursion was undertaken mostly via the offices of the London & South Western Railway Company with a single change at Exeter. We passed through Templecombe which reminded me of our trip just a few months back to attend to the pompous Mr. Somerville Hayland Merriweather, although thankfully the weather this time was rather better. Coincidentally Sherlock had just received a second telegram from Mr. Harry Percy over in the United States to announce that he and his lady had become citizens of that country and were now married, which had been good to hear.

The journey beyond Exeter across the top of the moors was breathtakingly beautiful and we alighted at North Tawton Station (which was breathtakingly _cold!)_ , where Doctor Black's carriage took us the last four miles to the house some little way south of the village of Spreyton. We reached it shortly after five o' clock.

Weatherford was…. oh dear. All I can say is, the phrase ‘Gothic monstrosity' was invented for a reason, and this was a supreme example of what architects could do when either drunk and/or not paid enough. Or possibly too much; the building was some way beyond hideous. It was as if some Bavarian castle had been lifted and dumped in the middle of the English countryside, and then some architect (or possibly just a drunk) had come along and tried to make it look even worse. Even Mr. Harley Quinton's 'traumatized tablecloth' of an exterior was better than this! My eyes hurt as I stared at it in horror.

_(I should add at this point that, being curious, I later looked up the so-called architect/criminal responsible for this horror. I will not name the fellow – his relatives do not deserve that - but in a recent interview he claimed to have been 'inspired' by the writings of a female friend of his mother's, whose latest crime against literature was one where a certain ladies' wear shop provided changing-room attendants who sorted rather more than just their customers' clothes. He even recommended 'The Old Curiosity Shop' by Miss Fidelia Raleigh to readers of the article, so clearly the man was indeed stark, staring mad!)_

“Look at it this way”, Sherlock said reassuringly. “It has to be better on the inside.”

ϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙ

As it turned out, the inside did have a few things that surprised me. One was a local constable called Peter Plum, whose name I immediately though appropriate not just because of his choice of shirt colour (which was virulent) but because of his ruddy complexion. A corpulent fellow in his mid-thirties, he looked rather out of breath which I later thought odd when I found that he had arrived there some hours before us. He also seemed decidedly nervous, but that may have been because of the second thing that surprised me, our host Doctor William Black. Who had disappeared without a trace.

“The doctor asked me to come here at ten this morning”, he said. “He had brought the Bishopgate Jewel down from London with him and was expecting all the various ladies and gentlemen who had a claim on it for the weekend.”

“Are they here?” Sherlock asked. 

“They all arrived before lunch, as requested”, the policeman said with a sigh. “I attended and it was a strained affair I can tell you, with people sniping at each other right, left and centre. After lunch they all went to their rooms, presumably; the doctor said that he had to write a letter and would talk to me in a little under half an hour. I went to the library to pass the time.”

I thought that rather odd, inviting the local constable round and then making them wait. Then again that was some people for you; I had had clients like that myself. 

I looked around the small room that the constable had purloined in which to talk to us. Even here the mauve wallpaper and burgundy-stained wood made me feel more than a little nauseous. I hoped that when the criminal responsible for this atrocity died they went to a Hell designed especially for them. Though I somehow doubted that even Hell had an architect this bad - until they got there, at least.

“The doctor’s study is quite close to the library”, the policeman continued, “and both are at the back of the house. As you may have noticed the house is set in a small dean which means that that part is always quite dark, even in the middle of the day. When I heard a loud cry at just after two o' clock I immediately grabbed a lit candlestick – there is only gas lighting here - and hurried out into the corridor between the two rooms. There was no-one else about which I thought odd, but I tried to obtain entry into the study and the door would not give. It turned out that someone had moved a heavy bench against the other side and I was eventually able to push it back enough to gain entry. Inside – absolutely nothing!”

I stared at him in surprise.

“Nothing?” I asked.

“Not at first”, he clarified. “When I searched the room thoroughly I did find two things; on his chair some threads which I was sure were from the black-and-grey jacket that Mr. Black had been wearing earlier, and a small blood stain on the floor by the fire that must have been fresh, otherwise the heat would have dried it. More than would have been done from just a cut, in my opinion.”

“Well observed, constable”, Sherlock said. “What about the servants?” 

“They are all in the clear, sir”, the constable said mournfully. “The fair is visiting North Tawton and the doctor gave them all the day off up to six this evening provided everything was made ready for his guests, food included. It was just him, the buffet luncheon and the Feuding Five.”

“Tell us about them”, Sherlock said sitting back in his chair. I stared at him incredulously. How he could relax in such an awful room as this?

“They are as I said the five claimants to the Jewel apart from Doctor Black”, the policeman said. “Starting with the Church, the Reverend George Green represents St. Edward's and is very High Church, the sort who would rain down blood and thunder on his enemies for being half a minute late to one of his sermons. Fifty-four years of age and always wears his dog-collar with full vestments. Not so much holier-than-thou as holier than just about everybody!”

“Then there is the split between the Catholic and Protestant descendants of the Fontenoys, both sides claiming the Jewel as theirs. Up for the Old Faith we have Mrs. Patricia Peacock and her daughter Miss Samantha Scarlett. Mrs. Peacock is on her fourth or fifth husband – one of the marriages was foreign and questionable in some way - and has always done well out of her marriages. All her previous husbands are dead, two in somewhat mysterious circumstances according to the notes the doctor kept which I found in his study. Forty-four but doesn’t look it and I already pity husband number five or six whoever he is out there!”

I smiled at that, at least until I remembered that I was with someone who always attracted the wrong sort of attention from the wrong sort of woman. _And someone who smirked annoyingly far too often, damn him!_

“Her daughter is similar to her in a lot of ways”, the policeman said thoughtfully. “She might beat her mother to the jackpot because of that questionable marriage because it would not affect children of earlier marriages of which she is the only one. I observed them at dinner and the word that struck me about her was ‘sly’. I think that she would be just as successful at getting what she wants and maybe even less scrupulous than her dear mama. Assuming that that is possible!”

“The Protestant side of the family is represented by Mrs. Edwina White and Colonel Michael Mustard. She is a cook for a family in London, which is a little unusual as she has a decent income from her late husband who died at sea. ‘Homely’ is the word I’d use to describe her, but the way she looked at Mrs. Peacock when they were talking about religion at dinner – if looks could have killed! She is fifty-two by the way. The doctor's notes said that hers is the senior line but there was another dodgy marriage somewhere along it, so that may rule her out.”

“The colonel is thirty-eight years of age, and much as I admire our military he strikes me as one of those types who might not do so well in peace-time. The doctor’s file on him was all ifs, buts and maybes; it seems that he has been involved in some financial dealings that were close to being illegal. His father of the same name is a low-ranking government minister in the Lords, and the notes said he had used his influence to protect his son on at least one occasion. Possibly more.”

“What about you yourself?” Sherlock asked, to my surprise.

“Sir?”

“The doctor invites a local constable to dinner, refuses to discuss matters with him until later, then disappears without a trace”, Sherlock said. “Come now, constable. You have a connection here in some way.”

Plum went bright red (and someone could stop rolling their eyes at me _right now!)_

“I can trust you, sirs”, he said quietly, “because I know your reputation. The doctor's uncle Mr. Peter Tresellick – he was about the same age as the doctor despite being an uncle; they came from a large family - he had an affair with a local woman and I was the, um, result. He died not long after I was sixteen and the doctor, he helped me get a job here.”

“Well, we must deal with the present, not the past”, Sherlock said firmly. “Though I rather think that in this case the past may have a role to play as well. We shall take in the scene of the possible crime.”

ϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙ

The study. Yellow wallpaper. _Bright_ yellow wallpaper. With a distressed fuchsia border (I knew how it felt!). I swallowed hard.

The only thing that distracted me from this horror was Colonel Michael Mustard. Who was dead. And even I could see why; a length of lead piping lay bloodied and slightly bent next to his body.

“Cool, so dead for some hours”, I said after a quick examination. “Most probably not long after lunch. Killed by a blow to the back of the head.”

“Indeed”, Sherlock said gravely.

We both looked at him in confusion.

“A single blow”, he explained. “Not normally enough to fell a man unless it was struck in exactly the right place. Therefore we should consider someone with at least a degree of medical knowledge.”

I thought of the vanished Doctor Black and a horrible feeling began to creep over me. He could not have.... could he?

ϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙ

Apparently he could have. The kitchen. Functional, although the dark brown panelled walls made it seem incredibly unwelcoming and the polka-dot red and green floor was just strange. Although not as strange as the dead body slumped face down in a chocolate trifle. What a terrible waste!

“Mrs. White!” the policeman exclaimed. 

Again it would not have taken a great detective to piece together what had happened here. The dagger protruding from the dead woman's back was the sort of clue that not even I could miss (just as I could not miss someone's smirk, which was as annoying as ever!). I quickly examined the body and sighed.

“As with the colonel, dead for a few hours”, I said. “This is horrible!”

It got worse.

ϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙ

The ball-room. I would presume that someone had thought that sky blue walls with clouds would have given the place a certain air. It had, although probably not what the designer had intended as the room felt bitterly cold. The orange ceiling and floors.... well!

The dead body slumped over the bar did not help matters much. I looked at the stunning red dress and hazarded a guess.

“Miss Scarlett?” I said. The policeman nodded glumly.

Whoever was doing this certainly was not trying to hide the means of death. A yellow rope hung loosely around the dead woman's neck and I could see the marks where it had been pulled tight. Again she had been dead for some little time, although she had I thought been killed after the others. In a room this temperature it was hard to tell.

“I should be getting back to the station to report all this”, Constable Plum said, looking worried. “I fear....”

He stopped. We all knew pretty well what he feared.

ϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙ

He was right to fear. The billiard-room, base for a game played with white balls; the room was like being inside an igloo. The only bit of colour was the electric blue dress of the now almost inevitable dead body draped across the billiard-table. Mrs. Peacock had been shot at very close range with a revolver, presumably the one which lay on the table next to her. A quick examination suggested that she had likely been killed after all the others, which given the sound the gun must have made going off made sense. This was a massacre!

The policeman looked at his watch. 

“The servants should be getting back any minute”, he said. “I wonder where the vicar ended up?”

ϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙ

The lounge. Sure enough collapsed into one of the bright green – luridly bright green! - chairs was the Reverend Green, a bloodied spanner lying next to him. I ignored the virulent chartreuse ceiling and the paisley lemon and pink wallpaper as best I could but could only determine that he had died at much the same time as the others, more likely from the spanner than the décor. Although you never could tell _and someone could stop shaking his head at me like that!_.

Our investigations were interrupted by the sound of the front door and we almost ran out of the room to find the servants returning home from the fair. Sherlock and Constable Plum took them into the dining-room (where hopefully there were no more dead bodies; we had not checked there yet!) and explained what had happened, then had to spend some time calming them all down. It was arranged that he and the constable would go to the village, Sherlock to send a telegram and the policeman to report the killings, then my friend would return here. In the meantime I had to check upstairs for any more corpses. Such was my life!

Mercifully the first floor proved corpse-free (although the décor continued to be appalling; one of the bedrooms had floor, walls and ceiling in vomit-green!) and Sherlock returned in time for a late dinner, whose quality impressed me given how stunned the staff must have been feeling. Still I did not sleep well that night, and it was not just the lack of my usual sleeping partner or the mauve and lime green walls coupled with the candy-striped carpet. Having five dead bodies in the house was.... rather distracting. We were also still minus one house owner as well, unless he had fled after.... ugh!

ϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙ

Constable Plum returned the following morning.

“The bigwigs down in Plymouth want me to go down and report to them in person”, he said. “They say that this is no case for the Professor.”

“Pardon?” I said.

“My nickname”, he said ruefully. “I worked in Okehampton before coming here and they already had a sergeant called Peter, so with my spectacles and the medical knowledge that I got from the doctor, I became 'Professor Plum'. Some joker in county put it on my file.”

“Of course you must go”, Sherlock said, “and the sooner the better.” At the policeman's raised eyebrow he went on, “delaying such a request would only make them think ill of you.”

“That is true”, he admitted. “What are your plans, gentleman?”

“We shall have an early lunch and then return to London”, Sherlock said. “There is little that we can do here.”

The policeman nodded and left us.

ϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙ

“Finding the killer here is going to be hard”, I said once he had gone. “We have five dead bodies and a missing homeowner.”

We were in the hall – only moderately atrocious beige and grey wallpaper with alternating pink and yellow _fleurs-de-lis_ on a black-and-white chequerboard background – and he smiled at me. Then he went across to what looked like a cupboard door and ushered me over. Once I was there he opened the door.

_“Not again!”_

There was another dead body inside, dressed rather fittingly like a funeral director. He had clearly been dead since at least the day before, judging from the colour of his skin alone. A bloodied candlestick lay next to him.

“Doctor Black?” I ventured. 

My friend nodded. 

“Fingerprints?” I suggested. Sherlock had tested all the other weapons last night but had not found a single print on any of them. He shook his head.

“I would conjecture that that is the same candlestick that was used by Constable Plum when he entered the study yesterday”, Sherlock said. “His will, I can guarantee, be the only fingerprints on it.”

“But who killed them all?” I asked, totally confused.

“Constable Plum”, he said calmly.

I stared at him in shock.

“But why?” I managed at last. “I mean, what possible motive could he have had? Unless he is a complete madman!”

“One of the oldest motives in the world”, he said. “Love of money. We know that Doctor Black had no children, and when I spoke to the staff they told me what our policeman friend had not, namely that he was the doctor's nearest relative. In time the constable would likely have inherited this house with all its architectural atrocities. He may have been prepared to wait but land is not the investment that it once was, and the appearance of the Bishopgate Jewel decided him. The only problem was that there were other claimants to it, and he judged it possible that his cousin might have compromised by selling the stone and splitting the proceeds.”

I stared in shock.

“He plans it exceptionally well”, Sherlock said. “He knows that in major cases the local policeman is always summoned to a larger office which in this part of Devonshire would be the port of Plymouth – a port where there are several fast ships going to the United States and elsewhere.”

“He will get away!” I exclaimed.

“That was why I sent the telegram yesterday”, Sherlock explained. “Luke has two men shadowing him. The moment that he tries to board a ship, he will be arrested.”

I shook my head, trying to grasp who would kill six people like this.

“No-one will believe me if I publish this case!” I moaned. “I mean it is just incredible!”

“Indeed”, Sherlock said. “It was 'Professor' Plum, with the rope, lead piping, spanner, dagger, revolver and candlestick, in the ball-room, study, lounge, kitchen, billiard-room and hall.”

I glared at him. This was not a game!

ϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙ

He was of course proven right. The murderous policeman was arrested boarding a ship for New York and his evil machinations were ended by a rope similar to the one that he used on one of his victims. The Bishopgate Jewel passed to a reclusive cousin of Doctor Black, whose grandson later placed it on permanent loan to the British Museum and also sent me a note asking me to publish this strangest of cases. Which I have so done.

I still find it hard to believe, though!

ϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙ

_Notes:_  
 _† Although the approach of Victorian governments of all hues to railways was_ laissez-faire _, they did interfere at times albeit to the advantage of no-one. Incredibly when one considers the modern sprawl of lines in southern London, they insisted for many years that there only be one -_ one! _\- single line into the capital from the south which, they said, would suffice for all the various railway companies. Had they kept to that, the whole system would surely have long collapsed under the strain!_

ϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙ


	12. Case 157: The Adventure Of The Hammersmith Wonder

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> 1889\. A dreadfully-named funeral parlour in a small Wiltshire town is the starting point for a vendetta by another 'man-child' for whom the word 'no' is an alien concept. And the dynamic duo meet the oddest of odd couples (so far)!

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Also mentioned as the case of Vigor.

_[Narration by Doctor John Watson, M.D.]_

Looking back over nearly five decades to the events of this story, I am minded to once again correct the modern perception that the Victorians were frigid and strait-laced when it came to sexual matters. In fact there was, unlike today, an understanding that what went on behind closed doors was solely the concern of those it went on between. Provided they were consenting adults and did not flaunt such goings-on in public, then society knew well enough not to ask. I would draw a comparison with certain high society people of the thirties, especially our now thankfully departed (and effectively deported) King Edward the Eighth, who like his grandfather and namesake saw nothing wrong in openly sleeping with the wives of other men who were apparently expected to 'look the other way'. I am sure that many in those far-off days knew or guessed that what Sherlock and I had was more than friendship, even if then it had not yet developed into what it later became. But one just did not ask.

To clarify another small matter with regard to this specific tale, the De'Aths in this story were not related to the late Arthur, Lord De'Ath whose murderous valet Mr. Nigel Horton we had brought to justice during our Continental trip (The Adventure Of The Noble Bachelor). Curiously neither family's ancestors had any associations with the Grim Reaper; Lord De'Ath's hailed originally from the curiously-named town of Ath, south-west of Brussels in Belgium (de Ath = of Ath), while those of the family in this story traced their line back to a Saxon fellow called Edmund Dethe whose name meant that he gathered tinder or kindling ('dyth') for a living. 

'Someone' is going to roll those pretty blue eyes right out of his pretty little head one of these days! Harrumph!

ϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙ

Our brief (and decidedly bloody) excursion into Drake's county had enabled me to put aside my emotions arising from the discovery that, barring a mathematical miracle, I had a son. Normally my way of dealing with anything that came anywhere near Feelings was to run as fast and as far as possible in the other direction, and pretend that it had never happened. But 221B's resident champion eye-roller had other ideas. 

Two days after our return from Devonshire Sherlock told me that he had invited Mrs. Leeds to Baker Street that very afternoon. I was initially annoyed but I conceded his point if grudgingly; matters had to be resolved so that we could both get on with our lives and do what was right for our son. It was a short but productive meeting; I was able to allay any fears that she might have entertained about my interfering in her son's upbringing, and we agreed that I should be allowed to place some money in a bank account for Ben's birthday and Christmas each year, to be accessible by him after his twenty-first birthday. She promised that when she gave him that money she would, whatever her husband said on the matter, tell him the whole truth and let our son decide how to proceed from there. She left - as things turned out I never saw her again - but I felt infinitely happier that things were now cleared up between us even if I felt a tinge of regret for the 'loss' of my son. At least one day, he would know the truth.

If I had had anything approaching intelligence, I should have known that matters would not have been resolved so easily.

ϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙ

I was not sulking. I was not!

All right, I was. But I had good reason.

There was a faint knock on my door and Sherlock’s voice called out my name; I could hear the caution in his voice even through the door. I sighed in a put-upon manner, collected myself and went to open it. He smiled a little nervously at me and ushered me over to my usual table.

The reason for my enforced internal exile sat in the famous fireside chair, still looking as if she would bolt at any minute. Miss Mortimeria De'Ath was between twenty and twenty-five years of age, wearing a horrible mauve dress that may have been briefly fashionable - very, very briefly - some aeons ago. She had been such a complete nervous wreck upon her arrival nearly an hour before that Sherlock had suggested that I put down my notebook and adjourn to my room to let him calm her down. Even his usual magic had taken its time although the lady now had a determined air about her, grimly resolved to say her piece despite the presence of two Men in the vicinity.

“Doctor Watson’s notes are of great import in all my cases”, Sherlock said gravely, possibly stretching the truth just a little (and that was dangerously bordering on a smirk for someone who wanted bacon any time soon!). “They allow me to review what has been said to me and to sometimes see things that I might have missed during my questioning. Now Miss De'Ath, we have discussed your case and in light of all you have told me I think it important that I run through everything to make sure that I have _all_ the facts. Is that acceptable?”

Good Lord, even _she_ was simpering at him! Sat there trembling like a leaf in December yet looking like the Good Lord had sent her the answer to her prayers! How I did not roll my eyes was a miracle of the first order!

“An important fact in this case appears to be your particular and quite fascinating ancestry”, Sherlock began (I did not even have to look at him to know that there was another smirk in there somewhere!). “Your great-uncle Mr. John Mortimer was immensely rich and, if I may be so bold, perhaps just a little eccentric. He was possessed of a great fondness for his family name and it worried him considerably that he had neither sons nor brothers to continue it. He had two daughters both of whom had married to disoblige him and had therefore been disinherited, and three sisters two of whom he disliked quite intensely, However he did get on with his third sister, your late mother Mrs. Mary De'Ath.”

“Your uncle died shortly after your mother’s engagement and it was discovered that he had left a somewhat peculiar will. A large sum of money was to be set aside for children from your mother’s marriage who bore the name ‘Mortimer’. Quite understandably your father, Mr. Edward De'Ath, did not wish to forfeit the right of his own lineage bearing his surname, but since Mortimer can most fortuitously be applied as a Christian name as well as a surname, they decided that that was what they would do. Your mother duly gave birth to three sons but sadly the latter two died in infancy, leaving only your elder brother Mr. Mortimer John De'Ath.”

“Your uncle's will had provided large sums for the first three children, regardless of.... gender.“ (I thought wryly that had he used the other, shorter word, our guest may well have run screaming from the room. Or even worse, simpered some more!). “This was to prove important as your mother's next birth, which most sadly claimed her life, was of twins; a girl – your good self – and a boy. Your father very sagely took legal advice, and hence you became Mortimeria Mary while your younger brother became Mortimer James, commonly Jamie.”

I wondered if the ‘large sum’ had been enough to compensate for being saddled with such God-awful names. 'Someone' shot me a warning look and I narrowly avoided grinding my teeth in frustration. 

Sort of narrowly avoided.

“Since the money did not come to the beneficiaries until they reached a set age your father found the expense of raising three children on his own quite burdensome”, Sherlock said with what was one smirk too many even for the resident bacon-stealer of 221B. “Hence when your maternal great-uncle Mr. Jacob Forrest offered to raise your brother Jamie, he accepted. It is an arrangement that has benefited both parties, although as Mr. Forrest lives on the Norfolk coast you rarely see your twin.”

She was clearly intent on adding something to the conversation at that point and we waited patiently for her to get there. Some time today might be good.

“Jamie is.....”

She stopped and stared at us, apparently appealing for one of us to finish her sentence. Unfortunately since Sherlock's mind-reading abilities usually extended only to myself, neither of us could. There was an awkward pause.

“.... different!” 

_What was this 'Jamie'? A Martian?_

“Neither you nor your twin have married as yet”, Sherlock said, steering round whatever minefield was there. “His share of your uncle's estate is administered by Mr. Forrest while following the death of your father two years ago yours has been administered by your elder brother, whom you have hitherto trusted to do right by you. However, certain actions that he has undertaken of late have given you cause for concern, which is why you have come to me.”

“That is it!” she burst out. “Morty has always been extremely careful with money, yet recently he has made several trips to London and always comes back looking _exceptionally_ pleased with himself.”

Sherlock kindly forbore to point out that she herself had come to that same city.

“Have you discussed these concerns with your younger brother, may I ask?” he inquired. She nodded.

“Jamie thinks that Morty is not always wise”, she said carefully. “Besides, he.... well, as I am sure _you_ can appreciate sir, it is not at all the same for _Men._ Great-Uncle John you see, he thought that the eldest son and heir was _so_ much more important which was why Morty got twice as much as either of us. _And_ he was allowed access to his funds on his twenty-first birthday while Jamie and I must wait until we are full thirty years of age. That is over seven years away!”

She was clearly (and I thought rightly) annoyed at that. I wondered if perhaps the awful dress was to make her look older and get her to her money sooner.

“But your elder brother has always paid your allowance on time?” Sherlock asked, shaking his head at me for some reason.

“He has”, she said. “It is important for dear Jamie who values his independence, possibly a little too much, and he has recently....um.... acquired a new.... 'friend'.”

I began to have an inkling as to the direction in which this conversation was heading. Sherlock pressed his long fingers together and stared at our visitor.

“You see”, she said twisting her hands anxiously, “Jamie is living with.... a Man!”

And _there_ we had it.

ϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙ

One copiously large sherry saw our visitor through this nightmarish revelation, and she was eventually able to struggle on with her interminable saga. 

“Morty and I live in the town of Devizes, in Wiltshire”, she said. “About a year ago he began to court a local lady, a flibbertigibbet called Miss Bradford. But she is the youngest daughter of one of the county members of parliament who is quite rich, so I suppose that it would have been a fair match. Except....”

She stopped again and blushed. I resisted the urge to glance at my watch. This was going to take forever!

“Six months back Jamie came down for a visit”, she said. “It was all quite, _quite_ ghastly. Miss Bradford developed.... an Affection for him and... well, of course he did not return her advances. Morty took it very badly and blamed Jamie for the whole thing, which was quite in error. It was all the fault of that Faithless Harridan!”

I had a sudden image of a murderous Miss De'Ath in her mauve dress, sticking a dagger into the woman whom she disliked so intently. I coughed and reached for a glass of water. Sherlock looked at me suspiciously and I avoided eye-contact with him until he had turned back to our client.

“So your brothers fell out”, he said patiently. “What happened next, pray?”

She drew a deep breath. This had to be bad.

“Jamie cut short his stay”, she said, “but unfortunately Great-Uncle Jacob had been expecting him to be away for at least three months and had taken the opportunity to visit some friends for a long holiday in the Far North of Scotland. His house was shut up so Jamie could not go back there. Fortunately one of our great-uncle's properties had a spare room; it is a small house in a place called Hammersmith, not far from here. It was while he was there that he.... he developed an... an Attachment to the local blacksmith, a Mr. Vulcan Wild.”

She finished her second sherry. I began to wonder if she might have to helped downstairs. Or worse, all the way to the station. Well she could get there under her own steam!

Sherlock shot me a look. Apparently I was going with her whether I liked it or not!

“A blacksmith called Vulcan”, he said keeping a remarkably straight face. “How unusual.”

“Yes”, she said. “The tallest man you ever did see, close to seven foot in his boots. I came via their house on the way here and that was the first time that I ever saw him.”

Sherlock stared at her. Of course it worked.

“I do not think that Morty was very happy about how Matters resolved themselves”, she admitted, someone managing to throw in another simper as she spoke. “He has not seen anyone since, except of course for that awful Newman female over at Larkwhistle Farm.”

I was impressed. I had not known that the word ‘female’ could be used quite so insultingly.

“I presume that despite his inheritance, your older brother has some sort of employment?” Sherlock asked, also smiling at our guest's choice of words.

To my surprise Miss De'Ath blushed.

“He runs Father's funeral parlour in town, she said, looking everywhere but at either of us. “He has renamed it _'De'Ath’s Door'!_ ”

My eyes watered with the effort of not laughing. That was seriously bad! Sherlock shot me another warning look before turning back to our visitor.

“Your case sounds quite intriguing, Miss De'Ath”, he said. “I am inclined to accept it. If you leave us a card with your address in Devizes, we shall forward you information as soon as we have it.”

ϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙ

“Regretfully I shall have to employ the offices of my annoying brother Randall”, Sherlock said with a sigh, once I had seen a slightly tottering Miss De'Ath into a cab and paid her fare to the station (she had even managed to lean out and simper up at our window!). “Doubtless he will want his pound of flesh in return.”

“I am sure that you can do a Portia and outwit him when he tries”, I said reassuringly.

He quirked an eyebrow at me.

“As I remember”, he said, “Portia was a woman disguised as an man.”

“I did not mean....” I spluttered, before I caught the twinkle in his blue eyes. The bastard was teasing me, damn him!

ϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙ

“Randall has his uses”, Sherlock said later as he looked over some files that the lounge-lizard had, thankfully, sent round rather than brought in person. On noting my eye-roll he added, “sometimes. I rather suspected that Mr. De'Ath’s recent trips to London have taken him to his brother's house and I would like to know more before we go marching in. Especially when someone is close to seven foot tall.”

“Are we going to Hammersmith to see this wonder?” I yawned, thinking that Mr. Randall Holmes's only real use was as target practice. My patients too had been more trying than usual these past few days and I was even more thankful that people had to pay for the privilege of imagining they had some rare ailment otherwise I would have been rushed off my feet. Although getting some of them to pay was a battle in itself!

“Sunday”, Sherlock said. “I thought you might like a day of rest before we went. You have been looking quite tired these past few days.”

That was considerate of him, I thought. It was actually quite nice being in Baker Street after a strenuous day out, with my friend, a warm fire and the prospect of dinner. Few things could be better, really.

“I ordered a box of those double chocolate slices from Branksome's”, he said casually. “I thought that you would appreciate them, after your recent travails.”

I smiled at him. Yes, things were good right now. I had better enjoy those slices quickly, before the next calamity hit my life.

ϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙ

Come the Sabbath we duly went to see the oversized Hammersmith smith. I was a little surprised however that Sherlock arranged to meet with the fellow and Mr. Mortimer James De'Ath at a good quality hotel not far from his smithy, but I supposed that he had to have had his reasons.

I have to say that of all the unusual couples that I have seen in my time, Mr. Vulcan Wild and Mr. Mortimer James De'Ath took the prize by some distance. Though they had to be close in age the massive blacksmith was at least six foot nine inches tall, not willowy or unsure of himself as so many overly tall people tended to be but an impressive lump of solid muscle. I had no doubt that if he were so minded and Sherlock had not been there, he could probably have beaten me to a pulp without so much as breaking a sweat. And then have buried my body afterwards.

_(Contrary to what 'someone' later claimed, I was just being courteous in letting my friend go first, and was not hiding behind him. I was not!)._

Mr. Mortimer James De'Ath on the other hand was a shade over five foot tall so a little under the average height for the times, although set against the behemoth next to him he looked almost Lilliputian. Introductions were made and Sherlock suggested that we adjourn to the restaurant where a light meal was served. Both men were clearly nervous and sat very close together, their hands touching but not holding.

“Why 'Vigor' for your business?” Sherlock asked. “Your own name was surely quite suitable for that of a blacksmith?”

The behemoth looked at him uncertainly and Mr. De'Ath placed a reassuring hand on a muscled arm.

“There was already a blacksmith using the name down in Fulham, sir”, Mr. Wild rumbled, “and we decided not to risk confusion.”

 _How could anyone confuse that?_ I wondered.

“Tell me about your brother, Mr. De'Ath”, Sherlock said. 

The smaller man blushed and I tensed as the behemoth next to him took his hand and glared at us both.

“None of your business!” he snapped.

“If you wish my help in remedying the situation, then it becomes my business”, Sherlock said equably. “Come. All I ask is the truth.”

The two looked at each other then Mr. De'Ath whispered something to his huge friend, who relaxed a little. 

“I met Vul the first day I was here”, the smaller man smiled. “All those silly romance novels about love at first sight – I used to laugh at them but it was true. I saw him walking home from work and I was lost. I could have tried to approach him, but I was so nervous that all I managed was to fall down the stairs outside the house. He came to help me and.... that was that.”

From the adoring look that the taller man was giving him, that had indeed been that. Some men were so whipped!

_I saw that smirk!_

“Tell me about what has gone wrong in recent times”, said someone who was in imminent danger of being left behind in this town.

Both men looked hard at him.

“How do you know about that, Mr. Holmes?” the smith said and there was an angry note to his voice. I resisted the urge to back away but my chair may have accidentally shifted backwards just at that very moment.

“In my line of work”, Sherlock said with a slight smile, “one quickly develops an understanding of certain types of behaviour. Your sister, Mr. De'Ath, came and spoke to me of her concerns about your elder brother, and I think that she is quite right to be concerned. Further inquiries confirmed to me that he was indeed the sort of person never to forgive any slight, no matter how incorrect he might be in the perception of such, and that he had made several trips to this area as of late yet had never seen you in person. That in turn led me to inquire into his dealings, with the result that I am sure you both now know.”

Mr. De'Ath detached himself from his giant partner and took his hand before resuming. The look he got from the behemoth beside was bordering on a simper, I thought but did not say for some reason. And that was definitely another bloody smirk!

“A few months back, the chance to buy Vul’s shop came up”, Mr. De'Ath said. “We had managed to save some money but we had to take out three loans to afford it. It seemed like a good move at the time; the business has gone from strength to strength and we managed to pay off the smallest loan recently.”

He hesitated.

“Then your elder brother managed to 'buy out' the remaining loans”, Sherlock said. The smaller man sighed unhappily. 

“Three weeks ago he came into the smithy and said that he was calling them both in once the paperwork had gone through”, he said. “Vul will be ruined.”

“I will see that rat at the bottom of the Thames before I let him hurt my Jamie!” the giant growled. This time I did shuffle backwards ever so slightly, to my soon to be ex-friend’s evident amusement.

“We must do our best to dissuade him then”, Sherlock said.

“Dissuade my brother?” Mr. De'Ath said incredulously. “He has hunted me down across England, and is prepared to ruin both me and the man that I love.”

“Then let me help you”, Sherlock said.

“How?” Mr. Wild asked dubiously. Sherlock smiled.

“I have my methods”, he said. “First I will appeal to Mr. De'Ath’s better nature.”

“That won't take long”, the giant scoffed. “There isn't one!”

“Well, I do have a contingency plan should that fail”, Sherlock smiled. “But I always like to give people a chance to show their better side. If he chooses not to, then he will deserve all that happens as a result!”

We all looked at him in confusion.

ϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙ

Sherlock promised the odd couple that we would visit them in their smithy which was not far from the hotel, once we had seen the villainous Mr. De'Ath. The latter duly arrived one hour later and, I have to say, he was everything I had expected up to and including the oily black moustache that, incredibly, he actually twirled while my friend talked. He smirked unpleasantly as Sherlock explained the situation and offered to buy the loans off him for ten per cent more than they were worth.

“Not a chance!” he said firmly. “The transfer paperwork for the second loan will be complete in two weeks’ time – had the original holder had not been so damn inconsiderate as to go and have a family emergency on me at precisely the wrong moment it would already have been done – then I shall call in both of them. That is an end to it.”

“That is your final word on the matter?” Sherlock asked.

“It is”, the man said shortly. “Is that all, Mr. Holmes? I have a train to catch back to Wiltshire.”

Sherlock smiled at him then stood up and walked over to the nearest table. He returned with a tall sombre-looking man who, I could not help thinking, might have been another undertaker.

“This is Mr. Martin Fortinbras”, Sherlock said, shaking his head at me in that annoying way of his. “He works for Pensford & Drew, the solicitors in charge of administering the late Mr. John Mortimer's will.”

“That has all been decided”, Mr. De'Ath said shortly. “I have my portion, sir.”

Sherlock shook his head at him.

“If you had bothered to check all those wonderful investments”, he said, “you would have noticed that nearly all of them were locked away for periods of at least and often in excess of a decade. You see sir, the late Mr. John Mortimer was a man of not only stern moral rectitude but also excellent human understanding. He foresaw the temptations of a sudden amount of money on his beneficiaries, and added a secret clause to his will to severely punish any who strayed from the path of righteousness. That clause, I have to tell you, has now been triggered.”

“What do you mean?” Mr. De'Ath demanded, although I noticed how pale he had gone. 

“Your great-uncle left a powerful disincentive against your sort of behaviour”, Sherlock said with a smile. “His will clearly states – and Mr. Fortinbras has a copy for you if you wish to examine it – that if any of the recipients of his _largesse_ were to indulge in any sharp practices – he defines this phrase most precisely and I must inform you that it easily embraces your recent 'dealings' - then not only does their flow of funds stop but they must pay back all the moneys that they have received thus far. Every. Last. Farthing!”

The man's face was now white, but he managed to rally.

“I have not actually been convicted of any crime”, he stated.

“I did offer you the chance to do the decent thing”, Sherlock said. “Unfortunately, _and_ in the hearing of an executor of the estate, you chose not to. I must say...”

“I have changed my mind!” Mr. De'Ath almost shouted. “The debts. You said to bring them. Take the damn things!”

He pulled a sheaf of papers out of his pocket and threw them on the table. Sherlock looked slowly through them and sighed.

“Well, I suppose that no crime has been committed _yet”_ , he conceded. “But I have to say Mr. De'Ath, this really will not do.”

The man turned even paler.

“What do you want?” he demanded.

Sherlock produced a single sheet of paper, evidently some sort of legal document.

“As well as surrendering the loans _gratis_ , you will sign over full control of your brother's and sister's shares of the estates to your great-uncle Mr. Forrest”, he said firmly. “If anything happens to him before your siblings come of age then his lawyers will take over. Although now I come to think about it, perhaps I am being a little too generous in that....”

Mr. De'Ath was already signing the paper without even reading it. Sherlock placed the debt papers before him for signing as well and he did so just as quickly.

“Are we done?” he asked nervously.

“For now”, Sherlock said. “But Mr. De'Ath, remember. I have many, _many_ friends and I shall be ensuring that at least one one of them maintains a weather eye on your behaviour in future. Should you stray again from the path of righteousness that your great-uncle expected you to follow, you will not like what happens as a result. And nor, I suspect, will your bank manager. Good day.”

The man fled without saying so much as a goodbye. I grinned.

“That was lucky, the great-uncle's will being like that”, I said.

“I put that in for you”, he said with a smile. “I know that you like that sort of thing.”

I gaped as he handed a coin to Mr. Fortinbras, who bowed and left.

“You... you.... you made it up!” I exclaimed.

“Of course”, he said. “But Mr. De'Ath has now signed over control of the estate to his uncle, he has transferred the loans to me for nothing whereas he could have had money for them, and his brother and sister will be free of his shadow from now on.”

“What about the debts?” I asked.

“I shall follow the old English tradition and allow Mr. Wild to pay them off by providing me with a horseshoe as payment”, he said. “It will be a nice little souvenir of this case.”

ϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙ

Postscriptum: Mr. Mortimer John De'Ath evidently thought that leaving the country would somehow free him from Sherlock's watchful gaze and emigrated to India before the year was out. His sister of the simpering looks and dreadful mauve dress took over his funeral business (immediately renaming it!) and proceeded to make a very good job of running things. And we were destined to see the Hammersmith Wonder in another case some years on; indeed some time after that he would be instrumental in bringing about one of the happiest incidents of my life.

ϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙ


	13. Case 158: The Adventure Of The Faithful Constable ☼

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> 1889\. Inspector Gregson is afraid that a minor embarrassment at a station on his patch will result in the ruination of several men's careers. Sherlock ensures that 'several men' are reduced to just one.

_[Narration by Mr. Sherlock Holmes, Esquire]_

It is a sad truism, even more so in this twentieth and most turbulent of centuries, that the larger an organization becomes the more corrupt it gets. Many modern writers criticise Victorians for their _laissez-faire_ approach to so many things, but back then we understood that more regulation always leads to more corruption, a lesson that many today seem to have forgotten. Even then there were instances when someone was caught doing something wrong and the immediate reaction of those in charge was to shoot the messenger. Or failing that, the man who had handed him the message.

Watson had suggested applying this idea to Randall, which reminds me that I still had to think of a reason why not. I was sure that there was one out there somewhere.... probably. 

It was also arguably wrong of my friend to remark that it had to have been an emergency that had brought Gregson round on a non-baking day. However given the headline in the 'Times', I did not have to have been a detective of any calibre to have worked out the reason for Mrs. Hudson having to double-check her calendar that day.

“The Marylebone Road case?” I asked.

Our visitor nodded glumly. There had been a run of burglaries across his and other patches of late and the Metropolitan Police Service had finally managed to catch the gang involved. However the evidence against them had been weak, and their trial had collapsed yesterday when it was revealed that some of the physical evidence against them was questionable. What that translated as was that the police had fabricated it, and even the normally careful 'Times' which by and large backed the Service had come perilously close to nearly saying exactly that. Certainly close enough for their readers to have been able to work out what was so nearly being said.

“Superintendent Brown is on the case”, Gregson said, “and he still resents me for getting that promotion ahead of his own kin. He thinks that someone leaked the truth about the faked evidence, and that that someone was from a station on my patch.”

“Did they?” I asked.

He sighed unhappily.

“They did”, he said. “Constable Jones, one of our best prospects but far too set up with doing what is right at all times. I know that is and should be our aim, but when dealing with this sort of low-life that we have to on a daily basis, you sometimes have to bend the rules a bit.”

“Unfortunately when you do that, you must also take the consequences”, I said. “What about the actual fabrication of the evidence? Do you know who was behind that?”

“No, except that it had to be someone of my rank or above”, Gregson said. “Because it was such an important investigation the evidence had been moved to a high-security room, where only chief-inspectors and above had access. Small fry like me were only allowed in with one of them.”

“I still cannot believe that they promoted that oaf to superintendent”, John said. “They could surely have done much better, even if they had gone and employed one of the station cats!”

He was arguably right on that. No, he was _totally_ right on that!

“With some of the scandals of recent times they were forced to slim down the top ranks”, I said, “and several of them left, with excellent pensions of course. There was only one vacancy at superintendent level and they needed one fewer chief-inspector, so despite Mr. Brown's malfeasance over the Ripper case they did the obvious. But still, it was an odd choice. I wonder if that is what is behind all this?”

“How so, sir?” Gregson asked.

“It is the old throwing someone to the lions trick”, I said. “I am sure the superintendent thinks that if Constable Jones is dismissed publicly and the Service then 'just happens' to make a statement implying that he was behind the fabrication of evidence, lazy journalists might think the case all done and dusted as they say. I do not know this constable of yours Gregson, so I think that you had better send him round. Tomorrow preferably, as I am sure that the unpleasant Superintendent Brown will be acting sooner rather than later.”

“Would you not like me to bring him round later today?” Gregson asked, clearly surprised at my unusual lack of urgency.

“Unfortunately we are going out this afternoon”, I said, not missing Watson's slight start at that news, “but first thing tomorrow should be fine.”

“Very good, sir.”

ϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙ

Watson, bless the fellow, did not give me away although Gregson had likely not reached the street when he challenged me on it.

“I did not know that we were going somewhere this afternoon”, he said. “Is there another case on hand?”

I shook my head.

“No”, I said, “but poor Gregson is stressed enough as it is. You saw how he was smiling as he went out of the door.”

“Why was that?” he asked.

“Because tomorrow is Mrs. Hudson's baking day”, I smiled, “and I have just given him an excellent reason to call round!”

He shook his head at me but smiled. I liked that smile.

ϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙ

The wonderfully-named Constable Faithful Jones was a good policeman, in that he kept a straight face while his ultimate superior all but assaulted an innocent piece of sponge cake. 

“Not for me, thank you sir”, he said politely. “My Minnie, she says that I have to watch my figure.”

I thought that the unseen 'Minnie' frankly needed her eyes testing, as the tall young fellow could have qualified for a second job as a hat-stand.

“Mrs. Hudson will be surprised at seeing uneaten cake”, I said. “You had better take it home with you, Gregson.”

My estimation of the constable rose another notch as he contrived to keep a straight face as his superior almost drooled at that. Watson placed the extra slice into a tin for him with what was definitely a knowing smirk, but I had to allow him that one. I still shot him a disapproving look, though.

“Now sir”, I said to the young constable, “I wish to ask you about this Marylebone matter. Did you tell anyone that the evidence had been fabricated?”

“Yes sir”, he said smartly. “A friend of mine works at the 'Telegraph' and he sometimes gives me useful information. I know we want these men off the streets, but we cannot start making things up or there would be anarchy.”

He had a point there.

“Next question”, I said. “Did you fabricate the evidence yourself?”

“No sir!” he said firmly. “That would have been wrong!”

I believed him on that. He very clearly had a strong moral compass, perhaps unfortunately for his employers in this case.

“Do you know who did?” I asked.

There was a slight but notable hesitation before his reply.

“No sir.”

I shook my head at him.

“Do not try semantics with me, Constable Jones”, I said. “I have to work with far too much of that as it is. You may not _know_ who fabricated the evidence, but the fact that your denial was at best half-hearted tells me that you have reason to _suspect_. Whom do you think did it?”

He looked embarrassed at having been caught out, but answered.

“Sergeant Crick I think, sir”, he said. “When Mr. Gregson here went up for his promotion, our man was about six months short of qualifying and had no-one in the Service to 'miss' that for him. He is always moaning about he would have made a much better inspector.”

_(I did not like the idea that those officers with family in the Service were able to advance 'before their time' in this way, although on the plus side it had led to Inspector Macdonald becoming the superior of our two other policemen friends. On the other hand there was the fact that Gregson had relatives in the Service while LeStrade did not, which again reminded me of the approaching apocalypse concerning when they both became eligible for their next promotions. I wondered if there might be a case in Outer Mongolia around that time.....)_

“But being known as the obliging officer who helped the Service out of an embarrassing corner would earn him great if unmerited credit”, I said, frowning. “Why do you think that he targeted you in particular? Was it because he does not like your approach to things?”

The constable smiled sourly.

“He tried in on with my Minnie one time just after we had got engaged”, he said. “He told her that a sergeant was much better than a mere constable, because of the extra stripe. So she gave him a stripe – _right across his face!”_

I winced. 

“He has hated me ever since”, the constable sighed. “I just have to keep my head down.”

“Maybe not”, I smiled. “After all most criminals overreach themselves sooner or later. We just have to give your sergeant an opportunity so to do.”

ϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙ

It was about a week later when Gregson came round to Baker Street.... all right, it was _exactly_ a week later because it was Mrs. Hudson's baking day again. Sometimes I thought that Watson was right in that criminals on his patch should just arm themselves with slices of cake to make him stop pursuing them. Not that I would have told him that as he would have become unbearably smug, and I detest people who smirk just because they happen to be right over something. I had said as much to Campbell when we had met the other week, and for some reason he had just given me one of his annoying smiles. And his nodding had been a shade too fervent. Brothers!

“You did it, sir!” Gregson smiled. “That faked letter from the superintendent asking him to remove a piece of evidence from the secure locker; he came out and walked straight into Jones and three of his men. The rat has been thrown out of the service today, and they are blaming the superintendent because the letter was in his handwriting.”

“That was why I needed that note of his”, I said, “so that a forger friend of mine could make it look real. Fortunately the superintendent has a quite unique if not almost illegible style of writing, so his subordinate naturally made haste to obey such an urgent request. The service will be better off without him.”

“Although they still want to discipline poor Jones”, Gregson said in disgust.

“They will not for much longer”, I said. “I have as they say had a Word with certain people higher up, and suggested that since he was the fellow who stopped a corrupt sergeant from breaking the law, any action against him would earn the Grievous Displeasure of the Thunderer as they would certainly find out the whole sorry story. If they need any further 'motivation', I too might feel inclined to look into things that they doubtless would wish me not to look into, or worse, suggest to Miss St. Leger that she might. Fortunately I understand that the constable's redoubtable lady hails from Berkshire and is pressing him to move there, where hopefully he can progress up the ranks of the constabulary.”

“A pity that you did not arrive earlier, Gregson”, John said airily. “LeStrade came round and had the last slice of cake.”

It was just bad of him to tease our friend like that, making him look like he had just realized his wallet full of fifty-pound notes had gone into the wash by accident. I shook my finger reprovingly at him.

“Do not be mean, John”, I said. “Of course we saved you a slice, Gregson.”

“Like we would dare not to!” John muttered. 

I sighed. Incredibly he was contriving to get even worse! It was a tribute to my generosity of character that I continued to put up with the rogue!

ϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙ

Talking of things getting worse, there was an arguably unfortunate postscript to this case. I had to visit my parents' house soon after and I made the mistake of mentioning Constable Jones's unusual first name to my mother. I can only assume that I must have been having a bad day as I did not foresee the inevitable; she felt 'inspired' to create a short story called 'South Park' in which a randy constable was 'faithful' to every single lady, married or no, on his beat – right up to the moment that he had to go into a sanatorium in order to recover from sexual exhaustion.

On the upside I managed to arrange for the annoying Randall to think that I was there on the day that it was finished, so he got to hear it. I am sure he was truly thankful for that – _I know that I was!_

ϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙ


	14. Case 159: The Adventure Of The Engineer's Thumb

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> 1889\. After the wittering Miss Mortimeria De'Ath comes the formidable Mrs. Emmeline Strong. Two very different ladies but, predictably, two annoyingly similar simpers in the direction of one smirking detective! Fortunately John Hamish Watson is not the sort of person to sulk over that – well, except when he is.

_[Narration by Doctor John Watson, M.D.]_

On the whole female clients were rarer than male ones (which I suppose spared me at least some of the dreaded simpering!) but that year had its share of extremes on the female spectrum. After our recent encounter with the mauve-clad Miss Mortimeria De'Ath we could hardly have encountered a lady more different than Mrs. Emmeline Strong, a supporter of the suffragist movement (although that did not relate to her case) and most definitely Someone To Be Reckoned With (capitals obligatory in her case). I myself was ambivalent towards her movement – I believed that propertied women would get the vote sooner or later just as most propertied men had got it earlier this decade – but that it would take time and that people needed to be won over first. After all it had been five and a half centuries between Simon de Montfort and the Great Reform Act, and another thirty-five years after that before any more changes. 

Although I was sure that the poor old earl would be spinning in his grave at the idea of _women_ getting the vote. He would surely have turned round and marched straight off the battlefield again!

To call Mrs. Strong formidable would have been passing up the chance to use the adjective ‘terrifying’. She charged into our apartments in Baker Street like an old-time galleon heading into battle, and she was built like one too. I swear that the fireside chair creaked when she descended upon it but fortunately it held. She stared sharply at Sherlock in silence for what must have been a whole minute before speaking.

“Your friend's books say that you are clever”, she said at last. “Well, are you?”

I coughed, trying to hide my shock. I had seen various approaches by people bent on trying to secure my friend's assistance, but this was a new one.

“I have solved a number of difficult cases, madam”, Sherlock said politely. “That would appear to indicate a degree of intelligence.”

“I need a man with sense, not just intelligence”, she said sharply. “For all that he is a decent enough fellow my husband has no sense whatsoever. I like you. You will do.”

I noticed a slight turning up at the corner of my friend's mouth so he too was clearly amused by the lady's forthrightness.

“How may I be of service, madam?” he said. “At the moment the only things I know of your case is that your husband is most likely an engineer, that you came through Paddington Station this morning, that you are careful with your money, and that you take pride in your appearance.”

That finally seemed to halt her progress, at least temporarily. She peered at him distrustfully.

“Explain!” she barked, as if she were addressing a dog that had just performed an unexpected new trick.

“Your ring is engraved twisted metal, clearly created by someone knowledgeable in the field of metalwork”, Sherlock explained. “The engraving is good quality but not perfect, suggesting that it was not done in a jewellery shop which only leaves engineering. There is, unusually, no green mark on your finger which implies that whoever made it knew to combine certain metals to prevent that, again a skill one only usually finds in engineering. The ring also has a most ingenious device which allows it to be expanded slightly; most people's fingers widen slightly as they age. Then there are particles of fine soot on your wrap; only the Great Western Railway uses Welsh coal so you came through their station, Paddington. It has rained lightly in the past ten minutes so your damp bag indicates that you walked rather took a cab, even though Paddington is a good twenty minutes away from here. Hence you are careful with money. Finally there are faint marks either side of your nose which shows that you usually wear glasses which as we all know are expensive, yet you have removed them before coming here.”

She nodded approvingly.

“Yes, you will do”, she said. “I want you to investigate something which my husband says is unimaginable, but that my woman’s intuition says otherwise. Do you believe in such things, Mr. Holmes?”

I privately thought little of women's intuition (though I was not going to voice that thought in this lady's presence!), considering that most women who claimed it were just seeking an excuse to entice my friend 'intu' their bedchambers. Sherlock shot me a look, and smirked most annoyingly. No change there then.

“I believe that on a subconscious level you may have seen something which has triggered an alarm bell in your head without fully knowing why”, he said. “Intuition is one name for such an experience. One of my recent and most interesting cases arose because a lady's intuition about the honesty of a servant proved quite correct, and led from a small quantity of household dust - or at least the absence of same - to a most diabolical attempt at the entrapment and social ruination of the fine young gentleman who is her husband. Pray tell me about your case, madam.”

She sat back – I winced as the chair creaked ominously – and began.

“My name is Mrs. Emmeline Strong. I live with my husband Edward at Fifty-Two St. Ethelred's Street in Ealing, Middlesex. He is employed as you said by that venerable institution the Great Western Railway Company as an engineer, working on designing quality railway structures. We have been married for twenty-four years now and are comfortably well-off.”

“Some time back the Company decided to build a new line through Wiltshire, near a place called Bolton St. Peter. Edward explained to me that the current route was somewhat uneven and also possessed of a sharp curve that has to be taken slowly; there is also a bridge which had caused problems ever since it was built. The new one would be more level and allow trains to run faster. It too will need a bridge, spanning the Larch which is a fair-sized river in the area. There are three engineers at the office where Edward works and all were asked to submit designs for the new bridge. Of course his was the one that they chose.”

I smiled at the evident pride in her tone when she spoke of her husband.

“Edward had to submit a detailed final plan at the end of last year”, she went on. “Work on the bridge is due to start in autumn; the line is already under construction and Edward was surprised when he went into the general manager’s office one day last week to find his plan on that gentleman's table. Mercifully he succumbed to the human sin of curiosity and looked at it.”

She paused.

“This next part makes no sense at all and my husband is sure that he was mistaken, but I know from reading your friend's stories that the strangest things can sometimes assume more importance than might seem due. When Edward drew up the plans he stayed late at work to finish them off, rather than bring them home every night. He remembered that there had been a faint thumb-print of his in the right-hand corner of the plans which his superior – a most obnoxious personage by the name of Mr. Jonathan Sophill – only remarked on only _after_ he had submitted them, and refused to let him have them back to remove it. The vile fellow! However, when Edward saw the same plans last week, the thumb-print was gone!”

Sherlock pressed his long fingers together and eyed our visitor thoughtfully.

“Why?” he said at last.

“I beg your pardon?” she said. 

“Why would someone substitute one set of plans for another?” he asked. “Presumably that was what happened; one cannot think that someone would go to all the trouble of carefully removing a faint thumb-print just to make the plans slightly cleaner.”

She hesitated.

“I said that the three people who work in the office each submitted their own plans for that bridge”, she said, clearly being careful with her words. “One of them, Mr. Mark Filton, is pleasant enough and quite friendly to dear Edward, and he has only just started there, but Mr. Michael Groves is a most disreputable fellow. He is a cousin of Mr. Sophill and hopes to succeed him when he retires in a few years’ time. He took his failure to have his design selected very badly, according to dear Edward.”

“I see”, Sherlock said. “I suppose that your husband, fearing that making a fuss might endanger his position at work, believes that he was mistaken over seeing the thumb-print.”

She frowned. 

“There is another matter, Mr. Holmes”, she said. “The general manager in charge of the place, a Mr. Angus MacKay, is the one who actually made the decision. He is a Scotsman and a little too prideful over certain matters, but I would swear that he is honest. He was there when Edward handed his design to Mr. Sophill and he immediately took possession of it; I advised Edward to make sure of that. I have thought on this and I believe that someone of Mr. MacKay's experience would _know_ if something on a drawing had been altered and would certainly put himself out to ask as to why. Hence the design must have been changed _before_ Edward handed it in. Yet I have gone through what happened and there seems to have occurred no opportunity to do that. That is why I have come to you.”

“Perhaps you might tell me exactly what happened during that time”, Sherlock said, “and I shall see what can be made of it.”

She nodded and extracted both her glasses and a notebook from her copious bag.

“Edward finished the design at shortly after six o' clock on a Tuesday”, she began, “and handed it over to Mr. Sophill and Mr. MacKay at nine o’ clock the next morning. That, according to my calculations, allows some fifteen hours in which the plans could have been altered. Mr. Groves was the only other employee at the office that day – Mr. Filton had had to take some documents to Swindon - and although he wandered over to look at Edward’s work from time to time he was never left alone with it. My husband did not trust him, quite rightly in my opinion.”

“Edward normally leaves the documents at work locked in a secure draw to which only he has a key. However he had recently found out that Mr. Sophill had somehow obtained a copy of his key, so he decided that for the last night it would be advisable to bring them home.”

I thought privately that the lady would have made an excellent witness. Or perhaps even a terrifying police constable one day. If what they say about fear keeping people honest is true she could easily have subdued a large part of London! And I did not see the sharp look someone was sending me just then.

“He came home on the train as usual, stopping only at the local shop to pick up some iced biscuits that I had asked him to purchase for me”, the lady continued. “He is quite capable with small tasks like that provided I write them down for him and place a note in his wallet where he keeps his train-ticket. He arrived home at approximately eight o’ clock and we all sat down to dinner.”

“One moment, please”, Sherlock put in. “You said ‘we all’. Was it not just yourself and your husband?”

She sighed at that.

“We are blessed, if that is the right word, with two sons and one daughter”, she said. “Only our oldest, Edric, was with us that evening. Edwy was out at the theatre and staying overnight at a friend’s house in the city while Audrey is still away at boarding school. There is usually a maid, Berenice, but I had given her two weeks off because her mother was seriously ill; her replacement only came in during the daytime. Paid leave; I expect my maid to work hard and in return I treat her fairly.”

 _Maybe there was some silk in the iron_ , I thought.

“You do not have a cook?” Sherlock asked nodding at me for some reason. I did not grind my teeth in frustration.

“I am inordinately fond of cooking myself so I do not see the need”, our visitor said firmly. “If a woman cannot keep a man fed then she should not keep a man. Edward agrees with me in that.”

 _If he knows what is good for him_ , I thought with a smile. I caught a warning glance from Sherlock and blushed. Was I that obvious?

“Where were the plans located after your husband came home?” Sherlock asked, sending me another annoying nod.

“In the house, all the time”, she said. “Edward placed them on the table in the front room – he was a little late and we were just about to sit down to dinner – then moved them to his study before going to bed.”

“Is the study kept locked?” Sherlock asked.

“Not as a rule”, she said, “but I insisted that he lock it that evening. The following morning after Edric had gone to work, he got them out just prior to leaving. Mr. Sophill called by on his way in to work, which was odd as it is not really on his way, but I did not admit him to the house. I did not trust him.”

“Did anything unusual happen while you were at dinner?” Sherlock asked. She nodded.

“There was a telegram”, she said. “A boy came and Edric went to see to it, but it was in error. There is as it happens a Mr. and Mrs. Strong who live at the other end of the street – we are not related – so I presumed that it must have been for them. Edric did not say.”

Sherlock nodded as if he had been expecting that piece of news. There was a strange silence between them.

“You are aware, madam”, he said slowly, “that if I begin to investigate a case I pursue it to the end. Even if the outcome may not be to my client’s liking?”

She held his gaze. I stared between them. There was something going on here.

“Edward is innocent in all this”, she said firmly. “I would stake my life on it. I know from your friend's books - over-dramatic but that sort of thing sells, I suppose - that you follow justice first and the law second. If I had wanted the law I would have gone to a lawyer or the police. I want justice, and I am prepared to pay for it.”

“I think that given the circumstances, I would rather discuss payment once the case is settled”, Sherlock said mysteriously. “I also think that it would be beneficial that I speak with your son Edric.”

“He works as a clerk at Danebury’s Bank in Aldwych”, she said. “It is in Montressor Street and they close at four.”

Sherlock nodded.

“Then the doctor and I must take up no more of your valuable time”, he said firmly. “If you are so good as to leave a card, I promise that I shall communicate any findings to you as soon as I have them.”

She nodded, placed a card on the fireside table, rose to her feet and sailed from the room. I felt silently pleased. Here at last was one lady who had not simpered at....

_Damnation, right there in the bloody doorway! Why the blazes did none of them ever simper at me? What was I, chopped liver?_

And if that was a smirk then someone was not getting cu..... held in a manly-like manner any time soon! Harrumph!

ϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙ

It was nearly lunch-time so Sherlock suggested we take a cab to my favourite restaurant in Trafalgar Square and then proceed to nearby Aldwych. I enjoyed my meal and their chocolate-and-cream trifle was so good that I felt compelled to have two (plus Holmes did not like his so I had to finish that too), although I did not see what young Mr. Edric Strong could hope to add to his mother’s excellent testimony. 

Danebury’s was a small but elegant building and judging from the people we saw inside they clearly catered to a most superior clientele; the doorman gave us a most unwelcome look. However we were eventually led in to see the manager, a dapper middle-aged fellow called Mr. Aymer Buckland who on finding out who Sherlock was looked like he was going to need my professional services sooner rather than his. Fortunately my friend soon calmed him down.

“In pursuance of an investigation which, it goes without saying, has no connection to such an _estimable_ institution as this”, he said smoothly, “I need to ask Mr. Edric Strong one or two questions. I am sure that you would rather that I did this in the privacy of one of your back rooms than over the counter in front of everybody.”

Mr. Buckland swallowed at the very idea and managed to turn even paler.

“Indeed!” he said weakly.

“I would however appreciate your _personal_ opinion of the young gentleman before I speak to him”, Sherlock said. “The questions that I have to ask of him are important you see, and I have never met him myself. You know him well, and work in a business when character assessment is important. What is he like?”

The manager swallowed nervously.

“Be assured that anything you say will be treated in the strictest confidence”, Sherlock said reassuringly. 

The fellow hesitated again before speaking. 

“Mr. Strong fulfils his job quite.... _adequately”_ , he said, clearly weighing his words, “yet…. I do not like to say this, but I have reason to suspect that he does not handle his own finances very well.”

“What makes you say that?” I asked. Again a hesitation.

“He seems to be quite liberal with his money at staff functions”, the manager said. “I had the, uh, 'pleasure' of meeting his mother one time, and I came away with the impression that she was not the sort of person to provide him with a generous allowance.” 

He smiled a little. 

“As you said Mr. Holmes, in the word of banking we often have to rely on our instinct as to whether the gentlemen – and ladies, these days - that we may have dealings with are what they appear to be. We can institute checks when employing people of course and in this case the young man in question was what he appeared to be, which was why we took him on. Or rather my predecessor did; I only took over here four months ago and when it comes to Mr. Strong my own instincts tends towards the negative. In all fairness however I should also say that his work here has been satisfactory if not outstanding.”

“I must thank you for being so candid with me”, Sherlock said. “Be assured that we shall keep what you have said to ourselves. Would you kindly arrange for him to see us now?”

ϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙ

I must say that my first impression of Mr. Edric Strong was not a favourable one. I could only assume he took after his father for there was nothing of his formidable mother in his appearance. He had clearly been informed as to who we were and his demeanour was one of polite curiosity. 

“You wished to speak with me, gentlemen?” he asked. 

“I did have one particular question that I wished to ask you, yes”, Sherlock said. “Who was it?”

The young man looked puzzled.

“Who was what, sir?”

Sherlock sighed impatiently.

“You try my patience, young sir”, he said with a surprising degree of sharpness. “If you will not deal with me then I will advise your mother to lay the matter before the police. I should inform you that in the circumstances they will quite likely decide to push for a charge of attempted murder.”

The young man went pale.

“Murder?” he blurted out. 

“Mr. Sophill, Mr. Groves, or both?” Sherlock asked bluntly.

For a moment I thought he would remain silent but finally he muttered ‘both’ before slumping into his folded arms. Sherlock stood up.

“I shall give you twenty-four hours”, he said bluntly. “At the end of that time and if nothing of note has happened, I shall advise your mother to go to the police. I hope that we understand each other, sir!”

He swept from the room and I scurried after him.

ϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙ

“But how could you know that the son was involved?” I asked as we were being driven back to Baker Street a short time later. Sherlock had spoken again to Mr. Buckland and very fairly warned him that he might be about to lose a member of his staff, as well as to make sure to check that gentleman's pockets before he left that evening. “There was no motive.”

“The motive was one of the oldest in the book”, Sherlock smiled. “Love of money. As Mr. Buckland rightly observed Mrs. Strong keeps her son on a tight leash, but he clearly likes the good things in life; one only had to look at his expensive suit which was far above what most clerks should have been able to afford. Mr. Sophill wanted his cousin Mr. Groves to succeed him when he retired and they took advantage of the boy's greed. The bridge competition was a setback for the ambitions of both men, but they contrived to turn it onto an opportunity.”

“How so?” I asked.

“Both men knew that changing one or two figures on the design will render the bridge a failure”, he said, “or perhaps even cause it to collapse when a train passes over it like the Tay Bridge famously did. But they had to get at those plans _before_ they were handed over because, as Mrs. Strong correctly reasoned, Mr. MacKay would likely have spotted any subsequent alterations and have then questioned Mr. Strong over them. By using his key to his rival's desk – which the man does not initially know that he possesses – Mr. Sophill is able to create a similar-looking copy but of a bridge that would fail, which he passes to the traitorous son. He then lets Mr. Strong know of the spare key and the fellow responds, as he had known he would, by taking the plans home 'for safe keeping'. That evening a fake telegram sent by one of the villains enables the son to excuse himself from dinner and make the switch. It was his bad luck that he did not notice the faint thumb-print that his father had left in one corner of the original, and that his father later mentioned that fact to his most intelligent lady wife.”

“Poor Mrs. Strong”, I said. “She will be heartbroken.”

He looked at me in surprise.

“Oh John!” he said with a sigh. “Really!”

“What?” He was looking at me almost pityingly.

“Mrs. Strong is fully aware of her eldest son’s perfidy”, he said calmly. “If there were to be a police investigation now, her poor husband would be mortified by all the publicity. No, Mr. Edric Strong will flee abroad somewhere and we can but hope that he is considerate enough to inform his confederates of the collapse of their nefarious scheme so that they join him in making the country a better place by their combined absences. There will be a little publicity but the police will realize that there is little to be done. Mercifully people's attention spans are short these days.”

ϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙ

Sherlock was yet again correct. Mr. Edric Strong, Mr. Michael Groves and Mr. Jonathan Sophill all fled abroad that same evening, and none of them were heard from ever again. The police decided not to pursue them bearing in mind the curious circumstances of the potential crime. Mr. Edward Strong was indeed affected by the ‘loss’ of his son but he was consoled by being promoted to the position held by one of the men who had tried to ruin him, and his bridge over the Larch proved a great success. Indeed ten years later his engineering achievements were such that he was made a baronet, which of course meant that Mrs. Strong became a Lady.

The poor English nobility had no idea what was about to hit it!

ϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙ


	15. Interlude: The S-word

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> 1889\. Someone else is a long way up a river in north-east Africa.

_[Narration by Mrs. Emmeline Strong]_

“What is it, Emmeline dear? Are you still worried about poor Edric?”

My good friend Charlotte had come round for tea and cakes. Her voice cut into my thoughts as I had become distracted, again. I sighed heavily.

“You would say that I am a Lady In Control Of Things would you not, Lotty?”

“Much as I would say the Pope is Catholic!” she retorted. “Is something the matter?”

“Not Edric”, I said. “I had long known that he was set on his own course in life; we parents can only do so much after all. No, it is that nice Mr. Holmes who sorted matters for me over the boy.”

“Ah”, she smiled knowingly. “You simpered at him.”

I stared at her in shock.

“It was not a simper!” I said crossly. “I just smiled at him in a way that.... well, he looked so.... you know.”

“Cute and adorable?” she said unhelpfully. “That is what Margo Jones called him.”

 _”She_ simpered at him?” I asked aghast. “But she is over eighty!”

“Her grand-daughter Julia was with her, and she did it too”, Charlotte said. “Comes to us all, dear. Not to worry; just try not to do what I did and allow your husband to be there when it happens. Tom still sulks when he reads the fellow's name in the paper, although it is useful when I want him to do something around the house.”

I was sure that it had not been a simper. Absolutely sure. 

Fairly sure. Besides, he had looked so utterly cute and ador....

Botheration!

ϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙ


	16. Case 160: The Hound Of The Baskervilles

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> 1889\. In the first of a run of three canine cases, Sherlock and John meet the inimitable Mr. Crowley and his friend Mr. Rival over an outbreak of dog theft in rural Hertfordshire - and it is not just an over-confident criminal who gets collared.

_[Narration by Doctor John Watson, M.D.]_

I had thought that of all the unusual pairings that we had seen over the years, surely the recent one of the huge Mr. Vulcan Wild and his somewhat smaller partner Mr Mortimer James De'Ath could not have been surpassed. But the two gentlemen who we met in this case were, for all the similarity in their physical appearances, the ultimate in a love-hate relationship!

It was a sultry day in August, when the mess that was London as its least pleasant. The newspapers were full of the opening of the Savoy Hotel† and how the cream of London society were vying with each other for a chance to stay there. I had to admire the sagacity of the place's owner Mr. Richard D'Oyly Carte; by limiting access to his hotel’s plush rooms he had cunningly created a surfeit of demand and tons of fee publicity as the social pages (which I hardly ever read) were full of who had or had not gotten in. Sherlock’s irritating brother Guilford had just been employed as one of the managers at the hotel and our next client was, perhaps surprisingly in the circumstances, recommended to us by him.

The day this case broke I had had that particular horror of all doctors, a call out at either end of the night, having been summonsed to one of my richer clients at midnight and then by another five hours later. Even worse, the first had been nothing more than a sore throat exacerbated by too much talking (I should have proscribed silence for a week!) and the second just indigestion (I may or may not have proscribed some particularly unpleasant and expensive medicine for the latter for keeping me from my Sherlock and my bed). 

I returned to Baker Street just after eight, mercifully in time for breakfast. I chanced to meet the postman bring the first post and took his deliveries to the hall table, separating out the two letters for me and one very badly wrapped package for Sherlock. Indeed it all but fell apart as I entered the room, to reveal a small sealed envelope and a dog-collar. A surprisingly large one I thought; it had to have been for an Afghan hound at the very least.

Sherlock came out of the bathroom a few moments after I arrived and I handed the letter and collar to him. He opened and read the letter and seemed to be blushing for some reason. 

“Is something wrong?” I asked, worried.

“A Mr. Marcus Crowley wishes to call on us”, he said placing the collar in his desk and, I noted, locking the draw.

The name was annoyingly familiar from somewhere, but I could not quite place it.

“The gentleman who took over Mr. Kuznetsov's 'business' when he and his sons had that unexpected inheritance and retired to fair Burgundy”, he prompted. “I was extremely fortunate to have performed a small service for Mr. Crowley before his elevation, and he has pledged to continue his predecessor in reminding London's criminal classes that those who trouble me had best be excellent swimmers while wearing concrete footwear!”

That had been a rare light moment during our recent troubled times, the Kuznetzov inheritance. A London conman had himself been swindled by his own son and some crooked associates of his in the City, and had got back at them by relieving them all of a large part of their wealth. His son had shot him dead doubtless fully expecting to come into the money that way; instead he came into a length of hempen rope and worse, found that his father had willed away his entire wealth to Mr. Crowley who, with Sherlock's help, had 'persuaded' the villainous businessmen to abandon their claims. I had been relieved at least that my friend had some protection against the villains who would surely wish him ill for securing justice against them and theirs.

“Is there a reason as to why Mr. Crowley forewarns us of his arrival?” I inquired. Only the richest clients usually acted in this way; most just turned up unannounced. 

Sherlock smiled at me.

“I presume that it must be of some urgency as he has come from the Savoy”, he said, “where all London is desperate to be seen as often as possible. Even the criminal classes have their social aspirations. Did you happen to see his name in those social pages that you very occasionally glance at if you happen to have the time and if the newspaper happens to have fallen open at that particular page?”

I glared at him. Sarcastic bastard!

“I can only presume that he is unmarried”, I said frostily, “as any wife of his would have killed him if she had not been asked along. He was reported as having attended with a friend of his, a Reverend Asa Rival.”

“His message did mention a friend who I assume is pertinent to the case in some way”, Sherlock smiled. “Those social pages are _so_ informative, are they not?”

I scowled at him. He was in severe danger of being denied any bacon the following morning, provided I could intercept the maid and eat all mine before it got to the door.....

_He was shaking his head at me again! Harrumph!_

ϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙ

Mr. Marcus Crowley arrived punctually for his appointment later that same morning. He was a dapper young gentleman, about twenty-five years of age and with one of those ‘stubble beards’ which were again currently fashionable for some inexplicable reason (I much preferred my friend's near-permanent unshaven look). Our visitor carried himself as if were fully aware of his social status but there was definitely a haunted look in his eyes, and I wondered what sort of thing it had taken to make a gentleman in his position look thus. Unless he had by some terrible mischance read one of Sherlock's mother's stories _and would he not shake his head at me like that?_

The Reverend Asa Rival was physically quite similar to his friend albeit without the haunted look although one noticeable thing about the two young men was what one might call their 'colour contrast, for while Mr. Crowley dressed exclusively in dark greys and black his clerical friend wore so much white that he almost glowed. Even his hair was blond-white, and he looked at his friend with a permanent expression of mild exasperation as if having to deal with someone who was perpetually annoying! I could really relate to....

_I was getting another look, damnation!_

“I know that you are a gentleman of some understanding, sir”, Mr. Crowley said in what was definitely an East End accent. “Also that you pursue justice rather than the law. Even if I were inclined to try the latter I am certain that it would fail me. You are all that I have.”

He sounded almost desperate, I thought. Sherlock looked quizzically at him. 

“Someone in your position has many more options open to them than most of our city's denizens”, he said. “Why come to me?”

Mr. Crowley blushed fiercely and stared hopefully at the floor. His friend sighed in exasperation.

“Tell them, Marco!”

 _'Marco'? Really?_

“Because of my dog”, Mr. Crowley sighed.

I supposed that that at least explained the collar. We had had stranger things through the post, after all.

“I am often out on, ahem, business”, Mr. Crowley went on, blushing for reasons that I could well guess. “However, Asa here recently had to vacate his rooms and.... somehow persuaded me to let him move in to my house.”

 _Oh yes?_ I thought not at all cattily. _Horizontal persuasion, or the vertical variety?_

Sherlock coughed pointedly. It was my turn to blush.

“It was very good of dear Marco”, the vicar said (I noticed how the criminal reddened at the nickname). “I believe that every man has a core of good, however deep down it is buried. It is just a question of, ahem, cajoling it out.”

If Mr. Crowley went any redder I would be reaching for my doctor's bag!

“My country house is in the village of Watton-at-Stone”, the criminal went on hurriedly, “which lies a little way to the north of Hertford. I was quite happy with my life, then Asa suggested that I might get a dog. As I have sufficient servants to care for him when we are both out it seemed a tolerable idea - until I made the mistake of allowing 'someone'” - he glared at his friend - “to visit the local dogs' home, whereon that 'someone' returned with the mangiest, most pitiful excuse for a canine that I had ever set eyes on! Gentlemen I cannot even begin to describe the sheer ugliness of the beast! It is part-bulldog, part-some sort of terrier and frankly sheer hideousness on four legs! Yet when he brought it home the damn thing somehow managed to clamber up into my chair and plonked itself on top of me, and those eyes…..”

His own eyes had gone wet at the memory. I felt sorry for him although I wondered at his description; such a dog sounded average-sized at best.

“A dog can worm its way into a man’s heart as easily as a child”, Sherlock said softly.

“He did”, Mr. Crowley said. “We called him Cerberus, as I had chosen the name beforehand and it most definitely suited him. He was the lamest excuse for a dog that ever was but we both loved him.”

His friend reached over and took his hand. Mr. Crowley blushed but did not pull away.

“He has been stolen?” Sherlock asked. Our visitor nodded.

“The damnable thing is that I know who has him!” he almost snarled and I was reminded of the dark side of the man that we had before us. “I would happily tear him limb from limb and take great pleasure doing it but he told me in a letter – and he boasted about it, the rat! – that Kirby was being kept under guard and the two men posted on him had instructions to shoot him if any rescue attempt was made. Gentlemen, I am desperate!”

I noted that the vicar had somehow edged even closer to him such that they were now touching, and the criminal leaned into his friend for support. Sherlock pressed his fingers together in thought.

“I will help you”, he said, “but I will need full details on the man who has your dog.”

Our visitor seemed to relax at that.

“Thank you sir”, he said fervently. “The man’s name is Sir George Baskerville of Scutcheon Hall, not far from my country house and just outside the town of Hitchin. He is an associate of Dickon – Mr. Feilding – whose son as you know killed his father over that inheritance. Sir George was wise enough to only be loosely linked with the vermin who you helped see off, although as you also know he was financially damaged by the whole affair.”

Sherlock frowned.

“A most disreputable fellow”, he said. “I have also heard of his ruining people merely to make a few extra pounds profit and I remember the doctor telling me about his once stating that philanthropy is a disease that affects only other lesser mortals. You are absolutely certain that he has the dog, and is not just taking advantage of its disappearance?”

Our visitor nodded.

“He told me of a small distinctive mark behind poor Kirby's ear”, he said, “one that only someone who had got close to him could have known about. I am desperate to get him back!”

“I too”, Mr, Rival said. “For all that he has no looks he is one of God's creatures, and a faithful friend.”

I was sure that he was looking at his friend when he said that, although I did not catch him actually doing it. Strange.

“Have you any information on the man’s family?” Sherlock asked, smiling slightly for some reason. 

“Marco knows everything about them”, Mr. Rival said, again making his friend blush deeply. He handed Sherlock a slim folder. “Sir George Baskerville is married with four children, and his wife helps out at local functions. It is my friend's opinion that, as he puts it, the lady in the partnership wears the trousers. Is that important?”

“It may be for what I have in mind”, Sherlock said, taking the folder. “If you would be so good as to leave us a card I will contact you both when we have news, and I promise to give this matter my most urgent attention.”

Both gentlemen bowed and left.

ϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙ

“You are helping the criminal classes again?” I observed once we were alone.

“Mr. Crowley is one of the most intelligent criminals of our generation”, Sherlock said thoughtfully, “yet he has been brought low because something that he loves has been taken from him. I am far from an emotional man, but I can empathize.”

I looked across at my blue-eyed genius of a friend and wondered; what if some tragedy were to take him out of my life now we were really together? 

I could not then know that I was barely a year and a half away from experiencing that particular horror.

ϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙ

Although Mr. Crowley's file on the villainous dog-thief was informative, Sherlock also sent out to his friend Miss St. Leger to see what else could be unearthed about him. Her file arrived the next day; it was certainly very thorough, right down to how he had his eggs for breakfast (scrambled, well done and with a dash of Worcestershire Sauce). The (other) villain was fifty-three years of age and had married a Miss Eirene Spetisbury some twenty-nine years ago, their having subsequently had four children. Of these the eldest, George, had married (initially against his parents' wishes) and now had two sons of his own, the eldest of whom liked picking the wings off of insects (!) The younger son Albert was engaged to a lady who owned a small flower-shop in the city (this match had also been opposed, albeit less strongly than that of the elder son), Victoria had married a businessman who had a rather strange photographic hobby – seriously, garden gnomes? - and had moved to his home in Cheshire where she was expecting her first child in a few months, while Alice was still single, living at home and fruitlessly trying to pursue a relationship with the local vicar who loathed the very sight of her. There was further information about servants and such that I did not find the least bit interesting – except possibly for that weird cream fetish the local vicar had - so it annoyed me when Sherlock told me that the answer to our case lay in the dossier.

My friend made a couple of journeys on the now just two days of the week when I was attending the surgery (by this time I had taken on more private clients and also needed more time for my writings) but he did not inform me of any results of these travels. Until one evening when he told me that we had been invited by his brother Guilford to dine at the Savoy. I stared at him suspiciously.

“You always suspect me of some underhand motive, doctor”, he chuckled.

“Often with good reason”, I said pointedly. “So I can be sure that our dinner this evening will be uneventful then?”

Aha! He blushed and looked away.

“A free meal at one of the best hotels in London, where everyone wishes to be seen”, he said teasingly. “You may even feature in those society pages that you never read.” (I pou... scowled at him for that uncalled-for remark). “As well as the chance to all but close this case for Mr. Crowley and his friend.”

“And to get his dog back?” I asked.

“Eventually”, Sherlock said. “Will you come?”

“Of course”, I said. “I cannot let you go roaming around the city on your own. Heaven only knows what trouble you would get into!”

He smiled, and I went to get ready.

ϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙ

The restaurant at the Savoy was far more high-class than any place I had ever dined at before, and I felt half afraid to touch the crockery and plates which I could never have afforded. As for the prices on the menu; if I had ever wanted to kill my bank manager I could just have shown them to him and then said that I had dined there for a week. Or even a single evening! The gentle sound of a piano playing in the background also did little to soothe my nerves at being so obviously out of my natural environment, and I looked around at some of our fellow diners in an effort to distract myself.

Mrs. Phelps looked all of her fifty-two years in this light even if she did claim to be thirty-nine, and the person sitting opposite her was most certainly not a 'gentleman cousin over from France' from the way that she was leering at him, although coincidentally France was where her husband was just now. Lady Barrowden might have been less smug if she had known the real reason behind her governess's recent and sudden departure was the husband busy slurping his soup across from her and ignoring her disapproving looks, while Mr. Paston the member of parliament for North Marylebone could surely not have been so unaware that he did not know just how much the fellow members he was dining with hated him, including Mr. Peters who was sleeping with his engaged daughter Miss Ursula Paston. Also Mrs. Haydn was not to know that her two dining companions, Mrs. May and Mrs. Hamworthy, were both making rather irregular use of the footman that they had 'borrowed' from her of late (the fellow had to have some stamina; what was all I could say). Not forgetting old Lord St. Denys who was likely in for a shock soon as his pregnant young wife (thirty years his junior!) had been opening her legs for one of the leering Mr. Jackson-Giles's friends and might soon be producing a baby that was not exactly white. Apart from that I knew no-one at all here, even from my very occasional glancing at the society pages on the very rare occasions when I happened to be anywhere near them. And if someone so much as sniggered, I was standing up and going straight back to Baker Street!

I glared at him. _The judgemental silence coupled with the patented not-smirk was just as annoying!_

We were shown to our table by Mr. Guilford Holmes who always made me feel slightly uncomfortable. He very obviously shared his family's dislike of our relationship but he knew full well that voicing those objections would cause Sherlock to cut him off rather than me (and much worse, would invoke the ire of their frankly terrifying mother), so he was noticeably wary around Sherlock who looked pointedly at him before we sat down. We ordered our meals and then watched as the _hoi polloi_ of London society filtered into the restaurant. I thought wryly that a jewel thief would have thought that he had died and gone to Heaven!

An opulently-dressed lady, wearing an unfortunate white dress that was presumably not meant to have looked like a collapsed wigwam, seated herself at a table across from our own, her neck glistening with a gaudy diamond necklace. The man who seated her before taking his own place opposite was smaller and mean-looking, also with rather too much superfluous jewellery on his person, and even though I had no idea who he was I disliked him on sight. Any man who wore that much gold was in my opinion not a true gentleman. Mr. Guilford Holmes appeared at the lady's side as if by magic and she ordered for both of them in a tone that reminded me of a yapping spaniel. Sherlock leaned across the table.

“Sir George and Lady Eirene Baskerville”, he said. 

I noticed that Mr. Guilford Holmes was saying something to Lady Eirene who started, before rising to her feet and sailing majestically across the floor (despite the encumbrance of her wigwam) to our table. Her husband scurried after her, clearly knowing his place; I could see that Mr. Rival's friend had been right as to who wore the trousers in this relationship and damnation if 'someone' did not somehow get a smirk in before they reached us!

“Mr. Sherlock Holmes!” she barked. 

Half the people in the room must have heard her. We both stood and bowed.

“I am Lady Eirene Baskerville and I _demand_ your services in a most important and vital matter”, she said even more loudly. “I have been the victim of a most heinous and unpardonable crime, and it must be remedied _at once!_ ”

“Madam”, Sherlock said smoothly, “I shall of course be delighted to hear your case. However as we are both dining at this estimable institution, may I suggest that we continue our meals and that we then adjourn to your room here so that you can explain exactly what it is you require and how I may be of service to so _noble_ a family as yours.”

I stared, dumbfounded! Lady Eirene was fifty if she was a day but she too was simpering at Sherlock, with her husband right there behind her. What on earth was it about the man that made virtually every woman he met act like a teenage girl? And to cap it all she actually sighed!

I did _not_ growl, whatever a certain someone claimed afterwards. I merely coughed. To clear my throat.

 _“Of course”_ , the hussy said, and Lord help me if she was not batting her eyelashes at him now! “We are in the Belmont Suite. I shall _so_ look forward to seeing you there.” 

She turned to her husband and her tone changed markedly.

“George!”

Sir George Baskerville might be a terror of the City of London but he scurried back across the room with impressive speed and held her chair ready for her. I hid my smile in a glass of water and I could see that my friend was equally amused.

ϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙ

The Belmont Suite was positively cavernous and Lady Baskerville was lain on the couch waiting to talk to us. I took the table and held my notebook ready while the lady's husband stood by the fire, scowling slightly. Sherlock sat in the chair next to the couch while I pointedly ignored the persistent simpering and did not grind my teeth at all.

“Now, Lady Baskerville”, Sherlock said with what was still an annoying smirk, “please tell me the circumstances of this most heinous and horrible crime.”

She shuddered (so did the couch).

“I am glad to hear you call it such Mr. Holmes, because it was truly, truly barbaric!” she said, wiping her eyes. “Yesterday some cruel, evil, heartless person stole Muffin!”

She stopped there, seeming to think that that was somehow self-explanatory. Sherlock pursed his lips.

“I shall of course need a full description of this 'Muffin'”, he said (how he uttered that name without laughing I do not know). 

“Muffy-poos” (I could barely write, my eyes were watering so much at this point) “is my sweet baby darling, a top-quality pedigree King Charles Spaniel that George here got for me when my daughter Victoria married and moved to Cheshire. The best of breed and such a sweet thing but …. but some horrible person took my sweet baby!”

Sherlock pressed his fingers together in thought.

“Madam”, he said carefully, “I am afraid that I must begin my investigation by asking you a question of some delicacy, but which is necessary for my understanding of the case. Is Muffin a male or a female dog?”

“A bitch”, her husband said shortly. She turned on him.

“George!” she thundered. “Bedroom!”

I wondered if 'Muffin' had been as well-trained as Lady Eirene's husband, who vanished into the next room. The term 'fled' might have been appropriate (it was).

“George is all well and good when it comes to business, but he has no sense for the important things in life”, she said starchily. “Why did you ask that?”

Sherlock hesitated.

“You are clearly a lady of strong character, Lady Baskerville”, he said slowly, “so I will be honest with you. As your dog is a high-quality pedigree one, it is almost certain that she was stolen so that people could breed more potentially high-quality pups from her.”

The lady went pale at the idea. I thought wryly that she had four children and.... no, not even going there.

“However that also means that she will be exceptionally well taken-care of”, Sherlock added, smirking even more annoyingly in my direction. “They will not wish to harm the goose that might lay them the golden eggs, as the saying goes. It is also highly unlikely that anything will happen in the next few weeks because they will have to also find and obtain an equally high-quality pedigree male dog, which will not be easy.”

“But you will come to Hertfordshire and investigate this horrible crime?” she demanded.

Sherlock shook his head.

“I think in this instance it is better that I stay in London”, he said. When the lady looked set to object he quickly continued, “for two reasons. First, if they become aware that I am on the case, the thieves may hasten their, ahem, preparations for your dear pet, which is something that we do not wish to happen. Not at all. Second, I have a number of contacts in the criminal world here who, I think, may prove useful in locating who is behind this most foul and loathsome deed.”

She looked a little put out that Sherlock was not returning home with her but sighed in resignation. There was a simper in there too somewhere. How I did not roll my eyes was frankly a miracle of the first order.

“However”, he said, blatantly not-smirking again, “I do think it is important that I have as many details as you can furnish, Lady Baskerville. I would like you to take the rest of this evening to write down _exactly_ what happened on that terrible day, with times if you can remember them and with names and descriptions of all the people involved. Then I would recommend that you have a good night's sleep, and when you wake up tomorrow review your notes and see if you can recall anything else. I often find it surprising how many things people remember after they have thought and then rested. You return to Hertfordshire tomorrow?”

“Yes”, she said. “George, of course, is staying on for business.”

She said it with what was pretty much a sneer. I thought wryly that it was her husband's business which kept her in expensive clothes and gaudy jewels. And paid for... 'Muffy-poos'!

“Perhaps you could ask your husband to drop by Baker Street with your notes late tomorrow morning?” Sherlock said, rising to his feet and looking reprovingly at me for some reason. “This is my card. We had best leave you now so that you can devote your attention to those important details of your most terrible day, and that I may begin my investigations. I promise you that I will contact you directly I have news, and I hope that that may be very soon. Good day, Lady Baskerville.”

We left the room. I felt quite proud of myself in making it all the way to the stairs before I fell about laughing. _Muffy-poos!_

ϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙ

Sherlock went out somewhere that evening – I was by this time accepting that some of his 'acquaintances' in London's criminal fraternity would not tolerate my presence, even if I fretted for him – and looked happier when he returned.

“You have the dog?” I asked as he took off his coat. To my surprise he shook his head.

“Not directly”, he said. “I employed the services of Mr. Albert Moray to secure the animal for me.”

“I suppose that he would not welcome my presence”, I said.

“I was not sure with him, as I have never needed to approach him directly before”, he said. “Given the circumstances I thought it better not to take the chance; typically the first thing he asked me was why I had not brought you along!”

I smiled at that.

“Mr. Moray is a most unusual character”, he said. “He has this ability – I would almost call it God-given – to attract any canine to his person regardless of how loyal that dog is to its owner. He is not a criminal; I would say he is totally on the side of the dogs and he will work for almost anyone provided that the interests of his canine friends are paramount. It was easy for him to lure Muffin away from her captors and he now has her safely at his house in the East End. She will likely be better cared for there than in Hertfordshire.”

“Might not Sir George work out that he is involved?” I wondered.

“Sir George and Mr. Moray most definitely do _not_ move in the same circles”, he smiled. “I paid handsomely for Mr. Moray's services for which I do not mind – he spends every penny that he gets on his beloved dogs – but I fully expect Lady Baskerville to compensate me when Muffin is returned.”

“Muffin”, I muttered. “She called it Muffin! _'Muffy-poos'!”_

We looked at each other and both burst out laughing.

ϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙ

Sir George Baskerville arrived at Baker Street just after eleven o' clock the following morning along with his wife's notes. He was not in a good mood.

“I know your game, Mr. Holmes!” he sneered. “You stole that dratted dog. Where is it?”

“Sit down, Sir George”, Sherlock said calmly. “It is bitter out and you look like you could do with a drink, despite what the scientists say about alcohol and cold weather. You will be delighted to know that Muffin is both fine and well-cared for. As I am sure is Cerberus.”

The businessman glared at us both and remained standing.

“You are working for that bastard Crowley, aren't you?” he said. “This is the sort of thing he would do all right!”

“I assure you, the removal of your dog was my idea”, Sherlock said. “Her safe return is totally in your own hands. All you need do is to contact the men that you have assigned to Cerberus and order them to bring him here, safe and unharmed. Once he has been checked over and is restored to his rightful owner, Muffin will be returned to Lady Baskerville.”

“I will have you for this!” the businessman growled.

“I do not think so”, Sherlock said firmly. “Because if you take _any_ retaliatory action against either the doctor or myself, or even Cerberus and his masters, then your good lady wife will be informed of _your_ role in this sorry affair. I do not need to be a detective of any calibre to know that she would _not_ be best pleased!”

I do not think that I have ever seen a man turn pale quite so quickly. He had been stood by the chair but he almost fell to the floor in shock.

“You.... you.... you would not!” he said incredulously. “She would kill me!”

“Quite probably”, Sherlock smiled. “Kindly ensure that Cerberus is delivered here _early_ this afternoon, two at the very latest, Sir George. I am expecting Mr. Crowley and Mr. Rival at four o' clock sharp, and I do not wish to be inconvenienced. The walk to the post-office is a short one and I did promise your wife that I would keep her informed. _Of everything!”_

He stared at us both with a fierce hatred, but he knew that he had lost. With a snarl he turned on his heel and stormed from the room.

ϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙ

The missing Cerberus was duly delivered to Baker Street just after lunch and my first impression was that Mr. Crowley had if anything understated his sheer ugliness. He padded into the room after Sherlock, gave me a dirty look (I think; it was hard to know which end was which!) then collapsed in front of the fire. Sherlock sat down in the chair next to him and unfolded his paper; the dog looked up at him then seemed to dismiss him as harmless. At least it did not simper at him!

Sherlock called for one of the boys outside and a few minutes later Mr. St. John, the veterinarian who lived across the road, came by and checked the dog out. The only odd thing about the animal (its sheer hideousness apart), I thought, was that he was indeed a medium-sized animal, and I knew that the unseen Muffin, a King Charles Spaniel, would be a small dog. Yet the collar that Sherlock had received in the post had definitely been for a large beast.

Mr. Crowley and Mr. Rival arrived at a quarter to four both clearly anxious, and the dog was growling even before they were through the door, waddling over to him to be picked up and held against Mr. Crowley's chest. There was no doubt that this was an emotional reunion on both sides and Sherlock and I both averted our eyes for a while. I noted that while Mr. Rival was clearly pleased to have the dog back, he let his friend have his time first.

“I can never thank you enough, sir”, Mr. Crowley said once he had sat down, his dog on his lap. “How did you manage it?”

“We all have our secrets”, Sherlock said with a smile. “It is a pleasure to bring you back together again and even better, I can assure you that Sir George Baskerville has been informed that any retaliatory action on his part against Cerberus or yourself in the future would be most unwise. If not fatal.”

The man petted his dog, who grunted in pleasure. I was impressed that he knew which end was which. Maybe he just guessed.

“How much do I owe you?” he asked.

To my surprise Sherlock shook his head.

“The price for my services in this case may be a high one for you, Mr. Crowley”, he said levelly. “Or it may be nothing at all. Because we move in similar circles it may be that at some future time I have need of certain services that only _you_ can provide. Should that ever be the case, my price for the restoration of your family pet is that, if or when that time comes, you answer my request for help regardless of the cost.”

Our visitor looked anxious at that but he was clearly in no position to decline such a request. He placed the dog on the floor and slipped a collar and lead on, then thanked us once more, shook hands and left with his friend.

ϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙ

I just had to go and say it. 

“I wonder why he sent you such a large dog-collar when he sought your help”, I said as we sat on the couch that evening. 

Sherlock blushed. I looked at him, confused.

“Guilford, being Guilford, was having a joke at my expense”, he said acidly. 

I still did not get it. He sighed.

“The collar was not for a canine”, he said quietly.

I got it. My mouth fell open.

“He thinks I treat you as some sort of pet?” I asked incredulously.

He looked at me awkwardly and finally, _finally_ I got it. Oh. Ugh!

“The collar was for me, was it not?” I said. It made sense now; the light-brown markings around the outside and the zigzag pattern was actually the letter 'W' repeated. Sherlock nodded awkwardly.

“He even had a metal disk with your name put on it”, he said bitterly. “I told him that I was half-minded to decline the case as a result!”

“That was bad of him”, I said.

“It was”, he admitted. “I wonder what will happen when Mother finds out?”

I looked at him in surprise, then realized.

“That would be terrible”, I said flatly. “Your poor brother.”

ϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙ

The following day there was a rather unfortunate scene at the Savoy Hotel involving one of the managers, a rather annoyed relative of theirs and a reinforced walking-stick that resulted in said manager needing to spend some time in hospital. Oh dear how sad never mind.

On an even happier note Sherlock received a long letter of gratitude from Lady Baskerville for the safe return of Muffin, who was apparently no worse for her adventure. Her owner also added that by a strange coincidence her husband had recently developed an allergy to dog hair, which was most unfortunate. For him.

ϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙ

_Notes:_   
_† The first hotel in London with electric lifts and electric lighting. The D'Oyly Carte Opera Company had been running since the 1870s but had taken off with the Gilbert and Sullivan operas, 'The Mikado' making enough profits to buy and refurbish the new hotel. The company closed in 1982, modern governments preferring to use taxpayers' money to fund instead some oversized woman being incomprehensibly miserable in Italian or German._

ϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙ


	17. Case 161: Fur And Away ☼

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> 1889\. Holmes is asked to help out in the case of a particularly cruel local landowner, who is related to someone just as unpleasant from a recent case.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> TW: Horrible but non-graphic mention of animal cruelty.

_[Narration by Mr. Sherlock Holmes, Esquire]_

Foreword: Because his readers would expect nothing less, I will admit that the choice of title for this story was mine. John did object but I just looked at him with what he called 'my best bacon look' (strange phrase) and he gave way.

ϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙ

I know that mathematically it was to be expected, but I often found it curious just how cases with a common link tended to 'cluster' together. For once it was perhaps fortunate – at least for him – that I did not have John with me on this case as I know that despite his allergy to cats he is an animal-lover. For this case thoroughly disgusted me, and in my line of work takes some doing. Of the hundred or more cases that I provisionally wrote up for 'publication at a far future date' this belonged to a small sub-group that were particularly horrible, including Dingwall, Marlow and the Forest of Dean. Not forgetting a certain clothes shop in Chelsea which still gave me nightmares!

It was frankly a wonder that I was as sane, well-balanced and modest as I certainly was. I may have said as much to John on the odd occasion, and he always smiled in agreement.

That September the love of my life was having to cope with a particularly difficult and demanding client whose wife was expecting their first-born and who was in a total panic about it; mercifully the wife at least was being sensible. Despite the fact that the couple lived barely a ten minute cab-ride from Baker Street the husband insisted on John spending the whole month living in his house and attending to his wife (John said that he would likely spend more time attending to the husband and desperately hoping that the poor baby took after its mother as much as possible!). Worse, the fellow had tried to approach John away from the surgery in an attempt to pay him less, and I had had to have a few Words with people to put a stop to that. So a whole month without my friend, although a big plus was that the fellow had agreed (all right, after a few more Words) to pay him daily.

It was while I was deprived of my friend and sleeping-partner that I had an unexpected visitor. My brother Carl, then a colonel in the Army and, I knew, increasingly worried about his and Anne's wayward eldest son Edward. I wondered if that was the reason for this rare visit.

Unfortunately as things turned out, it was not. Unfortunately because a familial complication would, in this rare instance, have been infinitely better.

“Luke would have come”, he grinned, “but Benji has him a little tied up at the moment!”

I took a moment to wish fervently for better or at least less informative relatives. I glared at the fellow.

“Aside from our cousin's preferences of which I wish to know as little as possible”, I said frostily, “what brings you here, Carl?”

His face took on a much more serious look.

“Have you eaten yet?” he asked, much to my surprise.

“No”, I said. “Lunch is still an hour away. Why?”

“Because when I tell you what I am about to tell you, you may well lose any recent meals”, he said. “I am only glad that your friend is not here; from what you have said about him he would be even more upset about it.”

He took a deep breath. I was already beginning to get worried; my brother was one of the strongest and most unimaginative men out there, unflinching in the face of death and danger. Yet something had clearly rattled him.

“You know how Luke is always renting new country places”, he said. “Mainly because he wants Benji to have his way with him in as many different counties as possible, I suppose.”

I glared at him again. He was doing that deliberately now!

 _“And?”_ I said not at all testily.

“Luke recently took a house at a place in a village called Exning, near Newmarket in West Suffolk”, he said. “We have a barracks not far from there, and the area is important to what happened. Quite soon he found out that of his neighbours was the sister of someone you had dealings with of late. A certain Lady Nugent-Hale.”

I winced at that. A ghastly woman who had wanted to throw a family out of their house because it had dared to impinge on the recently landscaped view from her rear windows. Fortunately Luke had been able to help me deal with her, and I suppose that I still owed him for that. Despite his frequent attempts to traumatize me with what he called his and Benji's 'sexploits'!

“Go on”, I said.

“As I am sure your resident non-reader of the social pages would know”, he said, “Lady Nugent-Hale added the first half of her name to distinguish herself from her sister who by marriage had also become a Lady Hale, Lady Margot in this case. I did check but their husbands are apparently not related, except in their dreadful choice of spouses. Lady Margot is I am afraid another apple that did not fall far from a bad tree; if anything she is even worse than her sister.”

I winced. That had to be bad.

“Lady Margot Hale's house is also just inside the borders of West Suffolk”, he went on. “Newmarket was a royal foundation† for the horse-racing, and all the Stuart kings apparently went there to get away from it all which given the plague and everything in the capital at the time is understandable, I suppose. A bit like Luke especially with the Merry Monarch, who was horizontal almost as much as our cousin!.”

I glared at him. It was palpably unfair both that he was one of the few family members that I liked, and also was much bigger than me. And a trained killer.

“Go on”, I said coolly.

“That is where King Charles the First comes in”, he said. “One day he got annoyed by all the local dogs running wild on his lands, so he ordered every mongrel within a ten-mile radius to be destroyed.”

I winced. This story was turning ugly.

“It gets worse as we come to what happened in our own era”, he said. “Like the king, Lady Hale did not like dogs running anywhere near her estate so she had several of them rounded up – and turned into leather bags for her to use while out walking!”

I stared at him in horror.

“She got away with this?” I exclaimed in horror. ”How on earth..... what about the local police?”

“Like her sister, she has the local authorities in her pocket”, Carl said. “She is always swanning around in her fur coats and complaining about everyone and everything; I suppose the only small blessing is that she is East Anglia's problem rather than London's.”

I thought for a moment, then a very bad idea crossed my mind as I remembered Lady Baskerville and her Muffin. Sauce for the goose, after all.

“This second horrible Hale hates all dogs?” I asked.

“Except her own”, he said. “Different rules apply there, of course.”

“I rather think that I need to visit the borders of the ancient kingdom”, I said. “But not before I have made one or two preparations.”

The look on my face must have been bad because Carl, who as I said was hardly ever afraid of anything (except his wife Anne), shuffled away from me. If only I could have managed that before he started traumatizing me.....

ϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙ

Mr. Albert Moray was surprised to see me back quite so soon, and even more so when I told him that a trip to the country would be involved. Fortunately he had an understanding neighbour (even better, one with no sense of smell!) who would keep an eye on his beloved dogs for the day he would be away, so all was well. I also paid a call to a furrier's shop not far from Baker Street, where they too were surprised at my request but said that yes, the items I required could be ready in a few days. I paid them in advance and returned to a cold, lonely Baker Street where I slept little.

I so missed John!

ϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙ

Normally I eschew publicity, but for once I did not mind arriving in Newmarket the following week and being recognized as Mr. Sherlock Holmes the consulting detective. Especially when I told the receptionist that I was on a Most Important Matter than could not of course be discussed. I wondered how soon it would take news of my arrival to reach Lady Hale, who would be calling on my services the moment she heard of me being there.

Yes, I was becoming as cynical as John. I was also right, as a terse telegram arrived at the hotel the next day _demanding_ that I go over to Noblesse Manor _at once!_ I reflected wryly on the name; I would have wagered a fair sum that the likes of this female would be certain that _noblesse oblige_ only worked one way, and always to her advantage.

Lady Margot Hale was very like her equally unpleasant sister whom I had met but the one time, both large ladies who had clearly been told by their photographer to look as unbearably snooty as possible and had achieved that with room to spare. Also a woman who had eaten an even bigger share of the pies than her sister – and worst of all, she too simpered at me! I was more than half-inclined to make a run for it back to London, but justice first. 

“You are here at last!” she sniffed. “About damn time! Someone stole my pet Dalmatians, Dieu and Droit, and I want them back!”

For some reason I was reminded of a stroppy child stamping their foot in a sweet-shop because their parents would not oblige them by buying everything that they wanted. Even when not with me 'someone' remained a bad influence. 

I smiled at the pestilential woman.

“I know”, I said.

That at least disconcerted her, although not enough to prevent another simper. Ugh!

“How?” she demanded. “You have just got here.”

“I came here because I have been contacted by the person who has your animals”, I said, thinking that the dreadfully-named dogs were certainly far happier with their fellow canines in the care of Mr. Moray than with this excrescence. “They are prepared to restore them to you subject to a certain condition.”

“I do not deal with vermin!” she spat out.

“I am merely the messenger, so do not shout at me”, I said patiently. “You have a reputation for fur-coats madam, and the kidnappers of your dogs do not like that at all. They have instructed me that unless you give up every one of your coats within twenty-four hours of this conversation” - I looked pointedly at my watch - “then you will never see your animals again. If however you dispatch the items to the address that I shall give you tonight, then I can come back tomorrow and return your animals to you.”

She glared at me.

“Those coats cost me a lot of money!” she snapped. “As if I would hand them over to thieves!”

“That is the deal”, I said, rising to my feet. “Take it or leave it. I must go.”

“Wait!” she said quickly. “How can I trust you?”

I looked offended.

“I am not the person who had local dogs turned into leather bags”, I said loftily. “If the coats are not at the designated address by this time tomorrow, you know what will happen.”

“I will have the police on you!”, she said angrily.

“Once news of my arrest reaches those holding your dogs, you will never see them again”, I said.

She hissed angrily at me, but she knew that I had won.

“Wait!” she demanded. “I shall have them boxed up while you are here.”

I nodded my acquiescence.

ϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙ

A few hours later I received a telegram from London that the coats formerly belonging to Lady Hale had all been received and would be sold with the money used to help see the poor through the coming cold season. I had taken the precaution of having the local constabulary informed that any investigation initiated by Lady Hale would be delayed by the local and national newspapers discovering just what the local chief-constable got up to during his holidays in Skegness. Along with the wife of the local Justice of the Peace there!

The following morning I returned to Noblesse Manor (honestly!) to a still terrible and incredibly, still simpering Lady Hale. Still ugh!

“Well?” she demanded. “Where are they? You promised to bring my babies back!”

I smiled cruelly, and handed her the paper bag that I was holding. She looked confused but took and opened it – then gasped in shock. A white fur bag with black markings.

“I said that I would return your pets to you”, I said coldly. “I have done so, much as you did to the dogs of the people of this parish unfortunate enough to live near you, madam.”

“I shall have you for this!” she yelled.

“I do strongly advise against any retaliatory action” I smiled, thinking for some reason of a certain taxidermist's shop in Dingwall. “You see, madam, the people who made this can make products out of almost any animal, even man - _or woman!”_

She stared at me in horror. I thought wryly that as an assortment of leather bags she would doubtless be a much greater contribution to society than she was now, but of course I would never do such a evil thing.

Probably never.

_Who was I kidding?_

ϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙ

Dieu and Droit were found much better owners out in rural Essex, and Miss St. Leger contacted me about the same time to let me know that the simpering dog-killer had tried to find a private investigation agency in London to see if they were still alive. I had however forestalled her; all of them were informed of her actions and the one she chose very sadly told her that her dogs were lost to her forever. 

Best of all John's patient had evidently tired of her husband's twittering and had a healthy baby boy over a week early, even if I again had to have Words when the husband tried to get out of paying John for the full term as he had promised. Some people these days!

ϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙ

_Notes:_   
_† This was technically incorrect as the town had been founded back around the year 1200 as Novum Forum before later opting for an English translation. Racing on the nearby downs actually dates back even further, to 1174. A royal palace was established there in 1608, and after the Restoration the town became a favourite haunt of King Charles the Second. A fire in the town in 1683 led to his earlier than expected return to London and he thus avoided the Rye House Plot which had been aimed at kidnapping him._

ϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙ


	18. Case 162: The Adventure Of The Boulevard Assassin

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> 1889\. The muddled and often deadly world of French politics seems a world apart from the quiet Lincolnshire fens, but a four-legged emissary of justice links them and serves to bring justice on a killer. Or does it?

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Mentioned also as the case of Huret.

_[Narration by Doctor John Watson, M.D.]_

In most of my friend's cases matters started with his help being requested by someone and ended in a successful conclusion. However, this particular case was somewhat different. It was unpublished at the time for two reasons, the first of which was that Sherlock (who was always far too hard on himself) counted it as a failure when 'solving' it was all but impossible, given the circumstances. The second reason was that as so often it involved the application of justice rather than the strict letter of the law, in that a man who was guilty of murder could go free. He had to be allowed to live out the rest of his life in peace, and only his quitting this country for the wilds of central Australia under a new identity, coupled with a letter that he sent to me granting permission to publish, have allowed this most curious tale to see the light of day.

To begin with I must explain certain recent events in the old enemy, new sort-of ally and political basket-case across the English Channel, _la belle France_. That country was still recovering from the shock of seeing German troops marching into Paris less than two decades back and having the provinces of Alsace and Lorraine wrested from her into a united and suddenly much larger enemy across the Rhine. Worse, the country had been constitutionally unstable ever since and earlier in the year General Georges Boulanger had looked set to be elected to power, only for his enemies to outwit him and force him to flee. I mention that because there would be fallout from that event for Sherlock and myself in a later case.

Power, they say, is a potent aphrodisiac, and those intent on denying the general victory had been unscrupulous (as in murderous) in the methods employed to stop him. One of the general's chief advisers had been a Lieutenant Didier Étrange, who had married an Englishwoman Miss Cecilia Mayberry (not one of the Mayberrys of Mayfair; I checked in the social pages). Earlier this year the couple had been shot dead at their home in the town of Le Mans in Maine, almost certainly by order of the General's enemies, but their only son Harry had himself managed to shoot and injure the attacker who, it soon emerged, had been none other than the infamous Huret the Boulevard Assassin. Mr. Harry Strange, then just eighteen years of age, had not unnaturally decided to quit France for the safety of England, moving to a small house in Lincolnshire that had recently been acquired by his English grandparents for their retirement, their having agreed to delay their move so he could have some time there to recover.

It will be understood from all this that it was in the interests of just about everyone involved to find Huret, although so little was known about the villain that we did not even know if that was his first, last or even his real name. The new French government was anxious to stop him (preferably with a bullet) from exposing their criminality, while the British and German governments were seeking him to either hand him over to the French or get him to talk and embarrass Paris most horribly. The hunt for a killer was on – and we were about to become part of it.

ϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙ

Beauty, they say, is in the eye of the beholder. That is true – I lived with someone whose inner beauty shone through most wonderfully, even if he did draw simpering looks from a far too high proportion of the population – but I also appreciated that there was a more generic beauty, a sort of 'standard handsome' which varied across different cultures. I think particularly of the model Mr. John Smith whom we had helped, and whose handsome visage still graced many a society magazine (his lover Mr. Christian, with whom we had set him up, had 'persuaded' him to continue with his career although he had not needed to go into quite that much information when telling us just how!).

The gentleman currently sat in the famous fireside chair at Baker Street, Mr. Harry Strange, had a different sort of beauty, one which the Ancient Greeks captured so well in their statues. His fine physique and fair curly hair set off a boyish yet manly face. I was not jealous, of course. _And 'someone' could bloody well stop smirking like that!_

“I am passing through London after seeing my uncle down in Kent”, our visitor explained, “and I wished to call in on you, Mr. Holmes. I know that you sometimes take cases that seem strange in the extreme, but what little I have to lay before you today is as insubstantial as a summer breeze. Yet I find it puzzling given the few facts involved, and I should like your opinion on the matter.”

Sherlock smiled at him.

“Pray proceed”, he said. 

“As I am sure you both know”, the young man began, “I was there when that rat Huret killed my parents. I was only spared because my late father, showing great foresight, had trained me up in the use of guns much as I do not really like them. He was unaware that I was in the house at the time – I had been supposed to have been at a riding lesson but ot had been cancelled – so I was able to surprise and shoot the vermin, managing to hit his principal hand which prevented him from using his weapon; as you know he always wielded a personalized gun by which he was later recognized. Unfortunately he managed to escape and has disappeared despite what I am sure are major efforts to locate him by more than one country.”

I do not know how, but I was sure that Sherlock reacted in some way to something that our visitor had said there. There was no outward reaction but somehow I just _knew_.

“I was physically uninjured in the attack”, our visitor went on, “but the doctors insisted that I spend some time recovering. It was during that time that I acquired Fido. He is a stray dog that I found ferreting through the rubbish outside my house. A mongrel but I have never really liked pedigree dogs, and had it not been for my father's dangerous career I might have had one before. As you know the British authorities rightly insist on a period of quarantine for animals coming from the Continent because of the dreaded rabies, so once I had had him checked out over there I sent him on ahead and set about sorting out my own move to England. I was exceedingly fortunate that I have an uncle who lives in Deal, quite close to Dover where Fido was kept in kennels so I could visit the old boy often. Once his time was served we repaired to my grandparents' house; they had just purchased it for their retirement but they had kindly delayed their move so that I could use it until I found somewhere else. It is in the tiny Lincolnshire hamlet of Restrick.

“Which Part of Lincolnshire?” Sherlock asked.

“Holland. It is about five miles west of Boston but on a small dirt-track road that is only serves the hamle and the restored Cistercian abbey which lies about a mile to the north. It ends at the abbey; it used to continue through to the main road at Tattershall but a farmer was allowed to extend his field over that part of it, although he had to leave a path for walkers. There is a station at Langrick and the railway line passes only a little distance from both cottage and abbey, but all told it is very quiet. It is not the sort of place where anything every happens really, so I thought that it would be ideal for my recuperation.”

“Pray tell us what has happened to disturb you”, Sherlock asked. “I assume that it concerns this 'Fido'?”

The young man nodded.

“It is the strangest thing”, he said, frowning. “Fido was very happy in the cottage and I took him out for walks every day. Then three weeks ago he suddenly disappeared.”

“Stolen?” I asked. The young man shook his head.

“He had run off to the abbey for some reason”, he said. “One of the brothers brought him back – luckily I had had his address put on his collar - and was very apologetic about it. The place is all open of course and they found the dog sitting in the herb-garden of all places. I could not understand it so dismissed it as unimportant. But two days later it happened again.”

“The herb-garden?” I asked. He nodded.

“Unless the dog has some strange passion for herbs and spices I cannot make head nor tail of it.” He smiled ruefully. “I did say that it was not much of a case.”

“On the contrary”, Sherlock smiled. “Has the dog run off since?”

“On one further occasion, a week after the second one”, the young man said. “I knew where to go this time. The brothers were quite apologetic and yet....”

He stopped. We both looked at him.

“Yet what?” Sherlock prompted. The young man frowned.

“I had the strongest suspicion that the Father Abbot was hiding something from me. I may of course have been quite mistaken but my late fatgher always said I was good at spotting such things.”

Sherlock pressed his long fingers together and thought for a moment.

“This case most definitely intrigues me, sir”, he said, to both my and our young visitor's surprise. “You say that you found the dog outside your house after the attack. How long after?”

“Three days”, the young man said. “It was by the alleyway where all the bins are put out; animals often scavenge there. I saw a wild fox there once and there were always the neighbourhood cats, hunting for vermin. Well, other vermin aspart from Huret of course. Fido was in a poor state then but now he is back to full health.”

“I would like to travel to the English Holland and investigate your case further”, Sherlock frowned, “but unfortunately at this precise moment I am tied up in a somewhat delicate matter involving Her Majesty's Government who, being Her Majesty's Government, expect one hundred and ten per cent of my time. However it will all come to a conclusion this week one way or another so I would like to come up with the doctor and call on you Saturday, if that is acceptable?”

The young man was still clearly surprised that his small matter has elicited such interest from the great detective, but thanked us both and gave us his card before leaving. I was going to question Sherlock on the matter once he was gone but I noticed that he looked oddly serious.

“Is there more to this matter than meets the eye?” I asked. “A runaway dog does not exactly seem important?”

He sighed.

“I am rather afraid that there is much more to it, my friend”, he said. “This is one of those cases when justice and the law may diverge onto very different tracks, necessitating us as always to choose the former.”

“I did not know that you were involved in a government case just now”, I said, trying to keep the hurt out of my voice. He smiled at me.

“I am not”, he said. “But it is a useful lie when I wish to have a few days to make certain inquiries into a case, as I do with this one.”

“You think that the boy did not tell us the truth?” I asked, surprised. 

“I am sure that everything he said in this room was the gospel truth”, he answered.

I looked at him suspiciously. I knew him well enough by now to spot when he was not quite answering my question. Of course I had about as much chance of working out why as I did of swimming all the way to our new client's country of birth!

ϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙ

Sherlock asked me to go down the library to investigate the local abbey, saying that background information was always valuable. I had a feeling that he was just being kind to me in allowing me to help solve the case and I half-wondered if his brother had not been right to send him that dog-collar! Fortunately the library had a recent book on the history of the Cistercians which proved most useful.

“They came back to England over forty years ago”, I told my friend, “establishing a small abbey in Leicestershire. Restrick is only their second foundation and is nearly ten years old, although the old Cistercians had had an abbey there for centuries. Like almost all religious bodies they have had their own schisms and both the 'new' abbeys are from the Trappist order.”

“Interviewing someone who is not allowed to talk”, he smiled. “That adds another layer of difficulty to the case. Is not the whole area close to or below sea-level in places?”

“That is an interesting tale”, I said, “and possibly the last excitement ever to happen in the place. When that tyrant King Henry the Eighth sent his men to close down the old abbey, the brothers took what they could and abandoned the place before they arrived, then deliberately broke the dykes and flooded the land, drowning the men who had been sent to dispossess them. It is a fairly empty area – the hamlet of Restrick is on the only higher ground, and that became an island for a time back then. The dykes were not fully repaired for many years, the book said.”

He was doing that morose staring into space thing again which always presaged his saying something that I would not like. I sighed.

“What is wrong?” I asked.

“We have known each other for too long if you can read me like that!” he deflected.

“Sherlock!”

“I am concerned about this case”, he said. 

I stared at him in astonishment.

“You are worried about a lost dog?” I asked incredulously. He shook his head.

“I am nervous because I fear that you will not be happy with the likely outcome of this case”, he said. “You are too good and true for some of the deceptions that I have to make in my line of work, my friend.”

He looked so depressed that I got up and crossed to the couch, taking a seat at one end and looking pointedly at him. He reddened but left his seat and joined me, laying down lengthways so his head rested on my leg. I toyed with the overly long hair and he sighed happily.

“I know that I have not always reacted well in the past when you applied justice rather than the letter of the law”, I conceded, “but I know you and your ways much better now. I promise, I will always stand by you. No matter what you do.”

He nestled closer to me and I smiled down at him. He was frankly adorable at times like this and I was so lucky to have him in my life.

At this rate _I_ would be simpering at him before too long! And that had better damn well not have been a nod!

ϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙ

On Thursday Sherlock received a large sheaf of documents from his lounge-lizard of a brother. I would like to say that Mr. Randall Holmes was actually fulfilling his obligations for once, but Sherlock's initial request for help had been met by a curt reply that the government official was busy but would try to find time for his brother when he was less so. I was not sure whether or not I wanted to know the story behind the single-word telegram Sherlock sent round to him in response that morning – 'Radishes?' – but the documents that he was now perusing had been delivered before luncheon. By special courier. He spent all that day looking through them and I did not ask him if he had found anything. If he wanted to tell me anything then he would. 

Unfortunately, later that same day he did tell me about the radishes. Ugh!

ϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙ

As Mr. Strange had said, Langrick, whose population could not have reached three figures, had its own railway station. From King's Cross changes at Peterborough and Boston were all that was needed before we were alighting at a small and seemingly deserted wayside halt outside which an ancient (and somewhat leaning) white finger-post sign pointed to the village in one direction with 'Restrick' and 'Restrick Abbey Only' in the other (I could see that the 'Only' has been added on top of where 'Tattershall' had been painted over in white). I found the countryside eerily.... flat. I knew of course that this was the Fens, that a large part was as everyone knows below sea-level and only maintained by a network of ditches and dykes, but it sill unnerved me to see mile upon mile of nothingness. Even a small hillock would have been nice. 

Mr. Strange was waiting for us at the little halt and took us back to his cottage which, it turned out, was one of only nine buildings in the hamlet of Restrick. A tiny church-cum-chapel, a farmhouse and six scattered cottages made up the rest of this not-quite metropolis. The road definitely deteriorated to barely a farm-track beyond the station; the railway which did continue to Tattershall was as our host as said some distance away.

Fido was very much as I had expected, one of what is called an 'all-sorts' dog. Like our client I too tended to dislike most pedigree species, feeling that too many were bred to standards that were demanding to the point of unhealthiness, so I liked this part Labrador, part Alsatian and mostly gibbering wreck. 

“He has not run off since you came to us?” I asked.

“He has not”, Mr. Strange said. “I should have telegraphed you otherwise.”

“I think that it would be beneficial if we were to attend on Father Abbot up at the monastery”, Sherlock said. “We should go there today.”

I was a little surprised at the haste but I supposed that, since the cottage was only small, he was considering finding lodgings somewhere else rather than having to bed down here. We all set off to the abbey; I thought it rather ironic given our client's last country of residence that the road into Restrick called itself 'The Boulevard'.

I would only later come to realize just how fitting that name was.

ϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙ

Restrick Abbey was a small place, its most notable feature being the whitewashed walls that made it visible almost as soon as we left the hamlet the best part of a mile away. The ruins of the old and larger abbey adjoined it and as elsewhere in this country we could see for miles in all directions. I had been surprised that the abbey itself had not been on high ground but I noticed that a nearby stream had been diverted to create a small pond, presumably for fish.

Sherlock gave his card to the gate-keeper and asked if the Father Abbot might spare us some time, and soon after the three of us were admitted into a small but well-maintained study where an elderly gentleman in white vestments stared at us with interest.

“What may I ask brings you to our little abbey, sirs?” he asked politely. “I hope that it is not in pursuit of some hardened criminal?”

Sherlock seated himself comfortably before answering.

“Not exactly”, he said. “I am afraid that pursuit of the criminal in question would be extremely difficult.”

He briefly ran through the events concerning the assassination of Mr. Strange's parents and I noted that he made it as relatively painless as possible for the young man with us.

“Now”, Sherlock said, “we come to the problem at hand. You see Father, I can see a way in which matters might have developed from that dreadful event. Fortunately it can be supported from the available evidence and, as my irritating brother who works for the government knows of Mr. Strange's connection to this Huret that everyone wishes to find, he will be expecting answers. And like one of those persistent Turkish rug salesmen he will not go away until he has answers.”

_(I smiled at the analogy, as we had recently had just such a salesman call at Baker Street. Clearly a newcomer to the area as he had not known of Mrs. Hudson's pistol. He knew now!)_

“Have you found this man?” the abbot asked.

“I do not know exactly where he is”, Sherlock admitted, “but I do know how he got there. Allow me to advance the following suggestion.”

“It is truly said that no matter how hard you try to hide, your sins will find you out. So it was with Monsieur Huret. Having committed this heinous crime on behalf of the French government, he knows that there are many people after him, some who want to kill him and worse, some who want to torture him to confess his employers' plans and then kill him. I asked myself; if I were in his situation where would _I_ hide out?”

“The killings took place in the town of Le Mans, and in that town there is a venerable Cistercian monastery. It is that that gives the criminal his idea. He will steal a set of vestments, flee the country as a hermit, and hide out in a small establishment somewhere overseas. England only has two such places so he chooses the more remote of the two and comes to Restrick. I believe that I am not wrong in stating that, a short time back, a wandering hermit came here seeking shelter before he resumed his journey?”

The Father nodded. I noted that he suddenly looked wary of my friend.

“Most unfortunately for Monsieur Huret, the Fates have taken note of his crime and have marked him down for retribution”, Sherlock went on. “For barely a mile away is a cottage recently acquired by the family of the young man who recently shot at him and who he has made an orphan, and unbeknown to him said young man has moved into that same cottage. But even then his luck may have held. This is after all a Trappist order so contact with the outside world is minimal, and there was no reason for the boy to ever visit the holy house.”

“But the killer's luck does not hold, and rightly so. One of the facets of Monsieur Huret's character is that he is a master of disguise, and as part of his efforts to get close to his well-protected target this time, he had acquired a dog. It is after all human nature to think better of a man who has a well cared for animal in his possession. After the shootings he carelessly abandons it and it is found by young Mr. Strange here. The law of averages duly plays out and one day Mr. Strange takes his dog for a walk in the direction of this place. We know how potent the canine sense of smell is and Fido subsequently tries to rejoin his old master.”

Sherlock hesitated.

“I am hazarding at the next part”, he said with a smile, “but I think I hazard well. Your 'hermit' claimed that it was time that he was on his way and departed shortly after Mr. Strange paid his visit here. Most unusually your 'guest' also omitted to state his next port of call. Am I correct?”

The monk drew a deep breath.

“The doctor's books underplay your talent, sir”, he said. “You are correct in every particular.”

Sherlock smiled.

ϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙ

We had a brief tour of the place then Mr. Strange drove us back to the cottage. We spent a further half an hour with him before taking our leave. I was still mulling over the escape of the assassin when my friend turned to our host.

“There is one thing that needs to be said”, he said, and his tone was suddenly severe. “Mr. Strange, I do hope that after today, you and I _never_ have cause to meet again?”

That seemed more than a little rude I thought, but the young man seemed to not take offence and drove us back to the little station before bidding us farewell. Once he had gone I turned to Sherlock.

“What was all that about?” I asked. “He seemed a pleasant enough young fellow.”

“For a murderer”, he said calmly. 

I looked at him in astonishment. It was fortunate that I was sat on a solid railway station bench, for my world spun around me.

 _“A murderer?”_ I gasped. He nodded.

“He murdered the man who killed his parents”, he said simply. “Doubtless Monsieur Huret's body is weighted and lying at the bottom of a dyke somewhere in the area, likely somewhere along that fittingly named long road. You saw how open and featureless the countryside is; the odds on finding it without the help of the man who put it there are virtually nil.”

“But how?” I asked. “I mean, how can you know?”

He smiled at me.

“The probability of his ending up a mile from the man who killed his parents by pure chance is infinitesimal”, he said. “I was suspicious when he first came to us and referred to his parents' killer in the _past_ tense; he knew that the man was already dead. I checked, and he neglected to mention that he tracked the man from Maine to Lincolnshire using a private detective agency, _and only then arranged for his grandparents to buy a cottage close by the abbey_. He had read up on the world of assassins and had found that some of them used dogs or other pets to get near to their victims so his discovery of Fido fitted neatly into his story, although I am sure that he would have obtained a dog from somewhere else had it been necessary.”

My head swam.

“But then why bring you in on it?” I asked. “You might have turned him over to the police.”

Sherlock shook his head.

“He knows from your estimable works that I follow justice before the law”, he pointed out. “It is an excellent move on his part, I have to admit. I investigate, a cover story emerges that will satisfy Huret's pursuers – and perhaps more importantly, Randall – as well as preventing them from doing anything awkward like looking for bodies in the Lincolnshire Fens, say. That is why I spoke to him the way I did at the cottage; like Shakespeare's Macbeth the first crime is too often the start of a slippery slope. But not, I think, in this case. He has what he wanted, the blood of the man who killed his parents.”

“Was the Father Abbot in on it too?” I asked. 

“I do not doubt that Mr. Strange told him of his plans beforehand”, Sherlock said. “Another cunning move on his part, as it placed the abbot in a most difficult position. The confession is sacrosanct as we know but he would not take an active part in ending another man's life no matter what foul act he had committed.”

“So we let another killer go free”, I sighed. 

Almost too late did I see his shoulders sag. I heard the train approaching so I quickly leaned over and kissed him on the cheek. He blushed.

“And I would have done exactly the same!” I said firmly.

He smiled at me, happy again. I would have done anything for one of those smiles.

ϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙ


	19. Case 163: The Adventure Of The Dying Detective

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> 1889\. Guess who's coming to dinner? Inspector LeStrade's life hangs in the balance and Sherlock has to use several large, muscular, semi-naked men to extract the information needed to save him. How very fortunate that John is not the jealous sort.  
> Shut up!

_[Narration by Doctor John Watson, M.D.]_

It was a bitterly cold September morning and I had been feeling particularly pleased. The reception of my latest story in the 'Strand' magazine, that of our adventure in Bohemia, had been even more positive that I had hoped and I was starting work on the Goode Brothers' case. I was seriously wondering just what was going to go wrong nest to make up for all these good things. And yes, I _was_ that cynical!

Make that correct rather than cynical, for almost immediately I had finished reading my reviews, Sergeant Baldur was announced. He brought with him the most alarming news; our friend Inspector LeStrade had been leading a raid on an opium den and someone had stabbed him with a needle in the _fracas_ that had followed. He was now seriously ill and his doctors were working frantically to try to save him.

“It is my firm belief”, the young sergeant said, “that this whole thing was set-up to make sure that he was there. He had been leading the investigations into several high-profile crimes of late and I think that someone wanted him stopped. Possibly even someone with connections inside the Service.”

“Pardon my being blunt”, I said, “but why not just shoot him?”

“Because this is infinitely worse”, the sergeant explained mournfully, an odd look on his handsome visage. “Morale at the station has gone through the floor and the three investigations that he was leading have all ground to a halt. Someone wanted him to suffer a slow lingering death as a warning to the rest of us to back off.”

Sherlock looked at him shrewdly.

“Are you not afraid that involving us will cause them to come after you as well, sergeant?” he asked gently. 

The policeman shook his head.

“I live with the possibility of death every day on this job”, he said stoutly. “Yes I feel fear – but my determination to do what is right is strong enough for me to override that. If we all let our fears get the better of us, there would be anarchy!”

“But I might wager that maybe not all your fellow officers of the law feel the same”, Sherlock said shrewdly, and from the fellow’s blush I knew that he was right in that. “LeStrade’s doctors have been unable to identify precisely what the poison was?”

“They think that it is some venom from a tropical country but they have no idea what!” the sergeant said scornfully. “I am fast losing hope over the whole business.”

“Do not despair”, Sherlock said comfortingly. “Whoever brought this into the country would surely have brought in the antidote as well, lest the vile concoction be turned against them or someone they know. Criminals may be evil but they are rarely stupid. Do you have details of the three cases that LeStrade was investigating?”

The sergeant nodded and produced three brown files from his bag, two large and one small. 

“The small one is an assault on a customer at a grocery store in Euston Square”, he explained. “He was only investigating that one because the local station had handled it so badly, the victim's wife submitted a formal complaint. She knows someone in the government and the top brass thought that putting an inspector from another station in to review the evidence would show that we meant business; as you know sirs, these sort of things rarely attract inspectors. A young fellow named Archibald Barrow was attacked by two men while shopping alone, apparently without motive. He was very badly injured but has since recovered.”

“That sounds innocuous”, Sherlock said, “but we should not dismiss it, especially since as you said the circumstances of LeStrade getting the case were unusual. What else?”

The sergeant turned to the first of the two bulky folders.

“This is the most promising one in my opinion”, he said. “A series of shady transactions in three small private banks, each of which collapsed soon afterwards. Definitely the sort of thing that a top criminal would want to avoid having the boss look into. Those City businessmen are worse than many of the so-called criminals we catch and lock up in my humble opinion!”

I recalled that both LeStrade and Gregson had often said much the same, and I agreed with them on that. 

“We will save him”, Sherlock said reassuringly. “I shall be devoting all my energies to this case, and I am sure that both the doctor and I can use our influence to get him the best treatment in this his time of trial. You are correct about some of our prominent wealth-makers, unfortunately. The third case?”

“This is the one that he did not tell me about”, the sergeant said. “Luckily his secretary Miss Wishaw mentioned that he had had two large files on his desk when I knew that he only had the financiers' case. I had to jemmy open his desk drawer to get it. It is very bad, I am afraid.”

“Why?” Sherlock asked. “What is it?”

“Two sergeants both resigned in the East End recently, each having ‘unexpectedly' come into an inheritance”, he said. “That resulted in a shuffling round of officers as is pretty normal, except that two of the new constables who came in had what you might call interesting pasts. Mr. LeStrade's notes suggested he was wondering if the old guard had been paid off so that constables who might be trusted to 'look the other way' could be put in on certain beats.”

“I hope that it is not that”, I said fervently. “That would severely weaken my faith in the bobbies on the beat.”

“Three possible cases”, Sherlock mused. “But only one motive. Someone wants the Metropolitan Police to back away from or at least not look too closely at whatever nefarious scheme that they are undertaking, and that someone is prepared to go to considerable lengths to achieve that end. I say considerable because obtaining that venom would not have come cheap.”

“What about our recent acquaintance, Mr. Crowley?” I suggested. Sherlock shook his head.

“Mr. Rival would never allow him to do anything like that!” he said firmly. “No, we are dealing with something else here. Something rather worrisome, I fear.”

He was to be proven all too right.

ϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙ

An outbreak of the winter flu decided to belie its name that year and struck hard at London all through a bitterly cold September. I was kept busy with my regular clients as well as at the surgery, and I knew that Sherlock was working towards solving our case as quickly as he could. I had been able to help with his current doctors in persuading them to accept help from one of Harley Street's best men in combatting poisons, Doctor Philip Powers. He and they had managed to put together a palliative which had slowed the venom’s progress, but our friend was still worsening. 

Finally and right at the end of that long cold month, we had a potential breakthrough. One of the villains who had escaped the incident in which LeStrade had been infected was arrested for another offence, although predictably he refused to talk without a lawyer present and would say nothing about what he knew. Sergeant Baldur was bitterly frustrated.

“He knows that whoever is ultimately behind this will either look after his family if he goes to jail with his mouth shut, or end them and him if he talks”, he sighed as he slumped into the fireside chair in Baker Street. “That is more than enough to keep him silent, damn the fellow!”

Sherlock thought for a moment.

“Perhaps you are having to be too conventional in your approach”, he said mildly. “I have an idea which might persuade this villain to be a little more co-operative, at least as regards our mutual friend. What is his name?”

“Garrod Robinson, and it took twenty-four hours just to get that much out of him. I am sure that he has enough aliases to fill half a street!”

“Can you hold him until tonight?” Sherlock asked. 

The sergeant looked at him curiously.

“Yes”, he said slowly. “Why? What are you planning?”

“It is probably better that you do not know”, Sherlock smiled. “I hope to be able to communicate an address to you some time tonight and you should arrange to have several men on standby to go there. Policemen who just happen to have their own gun on them would be advisable, in the circumstances. Be sure to release Mr. Robinson from the station at exactly six o' clock, sergeant, and we shall see what happens.”

ϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙ

I had two scheduled clients that day and luckily they lived close to each other in Homerton, so I left for them while Sherlock made whatever preparations he deemed necessary. When I returned I found a message asking me to meet him at an old warehouse in the docks and to come well wrapped up as we would be right down on the riverside. I complied, but when I arrived and met him I got an awful shock.

“What _are_ you wearing?” I managed at last. He was dressed up like an old-fashioned colonial gentleman, a dapper white suit, a horrendous lime-green frilled shirt with shoes to match, a cane and a panama hat. It rather suited him, garish as it was. 

He smiled at me.

“Unfortunately I cannot have you at the centre of things, as I would like”, he said a little ruefully, “but there are some offices which overlook where tonight’s 'fun and games' will take place and you will easily be able to see and hear through the missing windows without being spotted. Although I think that the only person who matters may have more pressing concerns that being watched from on high!”

Thus unfairly piquing my curiosity he led me into the warehouse. In the dim moonlight there seemed to be something large and black sitting in the middle of the floor. I stared incredulously at it but I was not mistaken – it was indeed a giant roasting-spit. There was a ladder up one side, a large bowl of coals underneath and, perhaps more ominously, a small brazier burning nearby. He led me up the stairs and into an empty office – he had very thoughtfully brought along the book on Greek plays that I had been reading - so I made myself comfortable and settled down to wait. I could not of course have the light on but the room was lit up by the lights of another warehouse nearby that were blazing along the waterfront and fortunately they were also shining across where Sherlock was, so I could see without being seen.

It seemed only a short time until I heard the sound of a scuffle outside the warehouse. Shortly afterwards, four large black men came into view. They were dragging a short, scruffy fellow with them, but more noticeable was that all four of the black men appeared to be savages fresh from a jungle hunt, dressed in feathers, loincloths and very little else. I also noted that each had a rather large knife. Their victim was blabbering and clearly terrified.

It was only when the moonlight through the huge window behind the spit caught the approaching figures that I spotted it. I stared incredulously as if unable to believe what I was seeing, but I was not mistaken. I _knew_ these 'savages'! The one at the front was our friend Constable David Chapel, who had sought our aid in the terrible scandal at the Tankerville Club, and then helped us out over poor Inspector MacDonald's troubles over that man's villainous nephew Mr. Gordon. And the second man at the front was Mr. Chapel's friend Mr. Benjamin Hope, one of those rescued from that thankfully now-closed club. I knew both men were settled and happily married with families now, and both helped out with security (and security alone) at the molly-houses run by Sherlock's stepbrother Mr. Kerr.

The third man who was all but carrying what I presumed was Mr. Robinson under his arm was Mr. John 'Jet' Smith, another impressive specimen of manhood who had the blackest skin that I had ever seen. A costermonger, unlike the others he worked at the molly-houses in a conventional (i.e. horizontal) capacity as well as security, and had recently become engaged to Mr. Chapel's sister Deirdre. The strange light below glimmered off his seemingly polished dome, making him look even more sinister.

In the poor light I recognized the last of the 'savages' and my smile may have slipped slightly. Mr. Benjamin Jackson-Giles, even more muscular than Jet if slightly shorter, and a fruiterer in the East End. Also a damnably annoying fellow; every time I had to treat him he always leered at Sherlock in a manner quite unbecoming any gentleman. He was as I have mentioned before the 'steady' lover of Sherlock's cousin Mr. Lucifer Garrick, despite being married with a growing family and the government official being nearly fifteen years his senior. 'Benji' (as 'someone' insisted on calling him) was I supposed a tolerable enough fellow apart from all that leering but he had a (sort of) Holmes of his own and he could damn well keep his lustful eyes off mine, even if he was arguably in not bad condition for someone a mere decade my junior.

There was, I noticed for the first time, a large table with leather straps set some way apart from the spit, also presumably for the victim. The four 'savages' dragged their captive up to where Sherlock was sat impassively on a huge chair that was almost a throne, raised as it was on a low dais, and he looked almost disinterestedly down at the new arrival. Then he smiled a slow smile, and I once more gave thanks that this great man had never chosen to follow a life of crime. Because that smile was pure evil.

“Mr. Robinson”, he growled. “So nice of you to join us for dinner.”

“Dinner?” the man squeaked, looking fearfully around. Three of the four men had retreated to barely a step away from him as if ready to strike, the flash of steel from at least one knife glinting in the darkness. Mr. Hope stood hard by Sherlock holding a long spear that, I fervently hoped, had fake blood smeared around the point. It looked real enough from where I was.

“Of course”, Sherlock beamed. “Not quite your conventional dinner invitation, but then I tend to shun convention. In this instance there is every likelihood that you will _be_ dinner.”

The trapped man let out a pitiful moan.

“It really is all your own fault”, Sherlock said in a put-upon way, fanning himself with an expensive-looking paper fan. “The man you poisoned was a policeman, and as someone in my line of business I am not inclined to be overly fond of the law…..”

“I didn’t kill him!” the small man blurted out. “That was Alfie…”

Sherlock silenced him with a look. The man shuddered.

“I incline to the opinion that accomplices in a crime are as guilty as the men they choose as company”, Sherlock said flatly. “Naturally I myself _abhor_ violence but the dying man’s friends from his time in French North Africa, they are…. well, I believe the saying is in your country, another pot of fish.”

Mr. Chapel suddenly emerged and prodded the prone man with his spear, eliciting a terrified whine. Sherlock frowned slightly and waved his fan at the fellow and the 'savage' quickly backed off, bowing as he went.

“Naturally I myself would be quite prepared to let the dear boys have their way with you”, Sherlock said, “provided of course that _I_ do not have to witness it. Cold steel unnerves me, and I do so dislike the sight of blood.”

He turned to glare pointedly at Mr. Hope, who whined in terror but quickly produced a cloth from somewhere and cleaned the 'blood' off of his spear-tip. Sherlock tutted and rolled his eyes at him but turned back to the victim; I caught Mr. Hope's sigh of relief.

“However”, my friend went on, shooting an annoyed glance at his untidy guard, “it is your happy and fortuitous circumstance that the poisoned man, as well as being a friend to these gentlemen, is also a passing acquaintance of my good self, so I am loath to see him shuffle off this mortal coil before his time is up. Even if he is a policeman; I am told that one must _try_ to make allowances in this day and age. So out of the kindness of my heart I am prepared to offer you a most _generous_ deal.”

That last adjective rang about as hollow as an Easter egg. The trapped man looked up hopefully. 

“I don’t know the big boss man”, he whined. “Really I don’t!”

“But you know who keeps the antidote that would cure my acquaintance”, Sherlock said smoothly. “Or at the very least you know who concocted this venom, and that knowledge alone would enable his doctors to make their own antidote. I require a name. Preferably, as regards your continued presence in this world, some time within the next sixty seconds.”

The man looked at the three savages who had moved closer again. Mr. Hope stood silently but had that sort of 'happy secret murderer' smile that would have made anyone with any sense start looking for their running shoes. Or more likely just making a run for it without them. Sherlock looked sharply at him and he straightened his face at once.

“What’re they gonna do?” Mr. Robinson quavered. Sherlock sighed again.

“In their native land it is custom to avenge the death of a friend by inflicting – the English language does not really have a word for it but I think it can be translated as 'slowest and most painful death imaginable' - on one of the people involved”, Sherlock said calmly. “Any one; they are open-minded boys and not at all fussy. They will tie you to the spit and cut a number of non-fatal wounds in your body, so that you suffer as your life-blood drains out of you. They then will cut you down alive and patch you up enough to make you suffer for even longer. Somehow they managed to keep their last their victim alive for two whole days, which was _most_ tiresome as it meant that I could not use the warehouse what with all the screaming. Quite inconsiderate of them but as they say, boys just want to have fun.”

Mr. Hope came forward to within just inches of the cowering man and said something unintelligible to Sherlock. My friend merely gave him a long look, and the fellow whimpered and bowed his head, retreating quickly into the darkness. 

“The dear things; they are as ever so keen to get started”, Sherlock said with a smile. “Oh well. If you cannot help me with my inquiries then I suppose I will just have to let them have their way with you. Kintabe, one more step and your good lady wife will not have to worry about having that tenth child!”

Mr. Chapel had been shuffling his spear around and slowly edging towards the man on the floor. He moved back to his position with amazing speed, visibly shuddering. Sherlock stood as if to leave.

“Wait!” the prisoner yelped.

Sherlock looked cross but remained standing as the trapped man frantically took a scrap of paper and a pencil out of his pocket and hastily scribbled something down. Mr. Hope snatched it from him, snarled at him then took it to Sherlock, bowing twice before handing it over. My friend held the paper behind him and someone invisible in the darkness took it. My friend then something unintelligible to all four 'savages', who all bowed and disappeared far too quickly into the dark.

“Tea break?” the small man quipped. Sherlock raised an eyebrow.

“Why would they do that?” he said dryly. “After all, they may yet be dining on fresh meat.” He looked the trapped man up and down before adding, “well, fairly fresh.”

Mr. Robinson sank into himself even further.

ϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙ

It must have been about an hour later when the sound of a drum began to echo softly around the warehouse. Sherlock looked up with a frown.

“Oh dear”, he said quietly. 

I doubt that those two words have ever been uttered quite so ominously. The trapped man managed to look even more terrified.

“Wh... what is it?” he asked quivering like a leaf.

“It seems that they did not reach your man in time to save my acquaintance”, Sherlock said resignedly. “The single drumbeat is the final precursor to Stage One of the ritual.”

I had not thought it possible for the man to go any paler, but he managed it. 

“Stage One?” he asked tremulously.

“Did I not mention that?” Sherlock said airily. “Brain like a sieve these days; it is so hard with all these deaths, you know. Stage One is where they tie you to the spit and then put you to death as slowly and painfully as possible; Kintabe said earlier that he thinks that he can manage three days with you but I think that he was just being boastful again. Although to be fair, I did not think he could manage two days with that last victim of his, the clever boy. Stage Two is where they eliminate those of the first separation.”

“Separation?” the man said, clearly confused.

“Of blood”, Sherlock said. “You know; father, mother, sisters, brothers, children, whatnot. Thankfully they do not treat them to the same method as you or I would have things to say about that. I do have standards to keep up. Usually a sharp knife across the throat as they are walking down the street suffices. Most victims hardly feel a thing, so they tell me. I have learned not to press for details as they tend to be rather too explicit; subtlety is, rather like regular clothing, beyond them.”

“You… you would kill my whole family?” the man gasped.

“All apart from your dear wife of course, as she is not blood,” Sherlock said. “I might also say, Mr. Robinson, that I rather resent your use of the second person singular pronoun in that sentence. _I_ have no intention of killing anybody. _You_ brought this whole mess solely on yourself, so _you_ must live with the consequences. Though as the drumming only lasts for about ten minutes as a rule, you will not be living with them for too much longer. Three days at the most, if Kintabe is up to it!”

Even I shuddered at the lazy evil in that smile and I knew – _at least, I hoped I knew_ – that this was all for show.

“No!” the man yelled. “You can’t touch my boys!”

“As I said, _I_ shall not be doing anything to them”, Sherlock said taking out his pocket-watch and looking at it. “It is such a pity, really. I always told poor LeStrade that he would investigate someone one day who would take exception to his keenness but he would _not_ listen. The French blood in him I suppose, for all he looks like your typical English thug. Now he has paid the ultimate price. So, very soon, shall you.”

“I can tell you why we were set on him!” the man yelled. “Someone was setting up a string of bobbies in the East End who would look the other way when told. That stupid darkie kept sticking his damn nose in so we were told to….. aaarrghh!!”

Mr. Chapel, his face now adorned with what I fervently hoped was red paint of some sort, had emerged silently from the shadows and was holding a large serrated blade like a scimitar over the captive. The small man was actually crying in fear.

“I really think that it is unwise of you to refer to one of my friends as a ‘darkie’, whatever that is”, Sherlock said coolly. “But congratulations.”

That last word seemed to terrify the man even more.

“Wh... what do you mean?” he demanded. 

“Well, since you have told us which crime my friend was investigating at the time, it will be easy to work out the person behind it”, Sherlock said. “Though I suppose they might be less than pleased at your having dropped them in it _quite_ so spectacularly. Oh dear how sad never mind.”

I smiled at the absolute insincerity in his using one of my own sayings.

“Have mercy!” the man begged. “I beg of you!”

Sherlock sighed in exasperation and looked at his pocket-watch.

“Delay, delay, delay! Well, since you have in a way partially avenged my friend Busir put that down _at once_ or I shall have to come over and talk with you again and we all know how that will end do we not? – I suppose that I am morally obliged to show a sliver of gratitude. This really is incredibly tiresome.”

The man before him was shaking. I did not feel the least bit sorry for him. He deserved all this and more.

“There is a ship leaving the West India Docks at nine o’ clock tomorrow morning”, Sherlock said, “The 'Spirit of the South'; not one of the best but passable for some, although _I_ would certainly never use her. If you and your family can be on the quayside before then, I suppose that I could ask the captain if there is room for you. Nothing special, mind.”

Mr. Jackson-Giles growled and Sherlock barked something unintelligible at him. The huge man sank to the floor whining in terror.

“Bad boy, Malto!” Sherlock said angrily. “You know full well that you _cannot_ have a piece of him for your collection; I remember what you chopped off your last victim when I said yes. Finding that in my draw after being told you had put aside some meat and vegetables was a most unpleasant surprise; I do not know how you kept the fellow alive for so long after cutting _that_ off.

I instinctively crossed my legs at the mental image. The 'savage' whined piteously and cowered as he stared up at him, clearly fearful of some form of retribution. Sherlock waved a dismissive hand at him and he shuffled back into the shadows, clearly glad to be away from that look. My friend then sighed in a put-upon manner and turned his stare back to the small man grovelling on the floor before him.

“It is less than twelve hours until the ship sails, Mr. Robinson”, he said pointedly. “Unless you wish Kintabe to take you home?”

Mr. Chapel looked positively gleeful at the prospect, his white teeth gleaming in the dark, and the small man screamed before fleeing through to where an open door was letting in the moonlight at the back of the warehouse. I waited until he had gone for some little time before descending to meet my friend, taking care to avoid the four 'savages'.

“That was so real!” I said, not the least bit jealous of four semi-naked muscled gods (especially one of them and someone could shut up right this minute!). “I am only sorry that they did not reach LeStrade in time.”

To my surprise my friend chuckled as he handed out notes to his 'assistants'.

“LeStrade is fine”, he said. “Thank you boys; that was a brilliant performance. He will make a full recovery, John; Mr. Robinson’s address was raided less than fifteen minutes after he handed me the note and Sergeant Baldur sent me a telegram saying that they had found the antidote and that it would have been administered to our friend by the time I read it.”

“And Mr. Robinson?” I asked. 

His face darkened.

“I do not normally renege on deals”, he said, “but the case of someone who would plot to kill a friend, I am prepared to make an exception. An acquaintance of mine will be on that ship and will disembark when it gets to Antwerp. Mr. Robinson will not be alive by then, but at least his family will be safe, especially when the criminal mastermind whose plans look set to unravel finds out who ended their little ramp. I am fairly sure they would remove this blemish from Mankind themselves, but I do not wish to take that gamble.”

“Do you know who it was?” I asked. 

His demeanour changed, becoming much more sombre.

“I am rather afraid that I do. It is that rising menace to society Professor Moriarty. We have frustrated his machinations this time but the likes of him will keep trying.”

I noted to my annoyance that one of the four savages – of course, _that_ one – was still with us. Sherlock smiled innocently.

“Dean Benji seems to have pulled a muscle again”. He said, “so we will have to take him back to Baker Street in order for you to treat him, doctor.”

'Someone' was going to end up investigating his own murder from beyond the grave if he was not careful!

ϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙ

It was almost a month later that Sergeant Baldur called round to Baker Street. The set of his shoulders was very much that of a defeated man.

“It is bad news?” Sherlock asked. He nodded.

“We have been unable to pin anything on that Professor Moriarty”, he said glumly. “He was too careful and too far removed from the people that we could get at. But at least we got rid of those constables he had planted at the stations in the East End, and the top brass are on the lookout for any other such machinations.”

“You have frustrated his designs twice now”, I said. 

I would have thought that my friend would have been pleased with such an achievement against so formidable an adversary but instead he looked at me almost sadly.

“We may have won a couple of small-scale battles against this evil man”, he said gently, “but we are a long way from winning the war. If he ever establishes the sort of control that he so desires over the criminal activities that occur on a daily basis in this city then the police may as well give up and go home. He will rule the place more effectively and more ruthlessly than a Bourbon monarch sitting on his Versailles throne!”

I shuddered. It was a grim picture.

ϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙ


	20. Case 164: The Adventure Of The Blue Carbuncle

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> 1889\. John's first time in what was to become his favourite part of England, the Sussex Downs, as danger surround a precious gemstone while a kindness to the 'lower orders' ends up yielding a rich dividend. But a bedroom conversation leads to death.....

_[Narration by Doctor John Watson, M.D.]_

It was a bitterly cold Friday early in December and London was most definitely more wet than Christmas-y. It had not been an easy year with the ominous Professor Moriarty looming in the background and my own problems concerning a certain woman and a certain young boy down in Hampshire, but I still had Sherlock and he had still scowled as I had decorated the Christmas tree as if he would have dearly liked to have set fire to it. Also he had just had a small boost when his sister Anna had been safely delivered of a third son whom she and her husband had, for whatever reason, named Orlando. Life was good.

The young lady seated in the fireside chair in our rooms at 221B that day was twenty-five years of age at most, plain of feature and modestly dressed. She had introduced herself as Miss Madeleine Brooks and then said precisely nothing. We spent some minutes in silent anticipation before Sherlock finally spoke. 

“I am sure that the good doctor here overestimates my abilities in those stories that he persists in writing”, he observed, ignoring my slight pou... scowl, “but it is customary for my potential clients to actually _tell_ me what it is that they require. Apart from the fact that you are quite obviously a maid with a caring master, suffer from a minor eye problem, are careful with your money and have travelled up from the south of England today with a male companion, I am at a loss to explain your presence here.”

She baulked at his perspicacity (at least it stopped her mid-simper and 'someone' could stop looking smug right now!). I too was surprised.

“How can you know all that, sir?” our visitor asked politely.

“It is my business to know things that others do not”, Sherlock said with what was perilously close to a smirk. “You are physically robust and the condition of your hands denotes some intense form of manual labour, yet your general appearance is pristine, hence a life in service. There is the mark of a pair of spectacles around the bridge of your nose and since such things are expensive you must be both adequately paid and careful with your finances in order to be able to afford such an item; few in your profession can. The London, Brighton & South Coast Railway Company issues tickets of a uniquely vile shade of green such as the one that you were holding when you entered. Finally said ticket did not have the mark for a ladies' compartment, so evidently you had male company on your journey.”

She nodded at that.

“The good doctor here does not overestimate you at all, sir”, she said. “I am here totally of my own volition and it is only fair before I begin that I must tell you that I have no way of paying for any help that you may be able to give me.”

“But if you have read the doctor's writings you will know that I often take cases merely because they interest me”, Sherlock said smoothly. “Also, you do not appear to be the sort of person who would come all this way if you did not believe that you had something that would excite my curiosity. Come, tell me what brings you here today.”

She took a deep breath and began.

“I work for Lord Gideon DeVille at his country seat of Maidenbower, near the village of Partridge Green in Sussex”, she said, “and I am as you said a housemaid. Lord Gideon is a wonderful master; he never forgets our birthdays and even orders magazines just for us staff. That is how I came to read the tales of your adventures and when certain... happenings at the house caused me some unease I decided to take this opportunity to see if you might look into them. James - one of the footmen - and I have been dispatched to open up the family's main London house for Lord Gideon's move there for the Christmas holiday. He said that I was a fool for coming here but he agreed to wait in the restaurant opposite while I talked to you.”

I caught the slight blush when she mentioned the footman's name. Hmm.

“I think that before you start your tale fully, you might describe to me the people at Maidenbower”, Sherlock said, sending me a most annoying nod. “In that way I may better understand the events that you later relate.”

She nodded.

“Lord Gideon is about fifty-five years of age, in moderate health and separated from his second wife”, she began. “His first marriage I only recently learned was one arranged by his father, which his intended wife was equally against. On her way back from the church she arranged that the man she truly loved would 'kidnap' her and when they were found a few months later she was pregnant by him. A shocking thing it was!”

I thought instinctively of poor Lord Tobias Hawke, Sherlock's friend who had blown his brains out when his intended wife had cuckolded him, although I suppose at least she had contrived to do it before getting to the church. Coincidentally my friend had recently had to use the offices of his cousin Mr. Garrick to deter a scheming woman called Miss Heidi Remenham who had come perilously close to cajoling Lord Tobias' eldest son, the twenty-eight year-old Lord Harry, into marriage. Fortunately the threat to expose her crooked dealings had forced her to withdraw. I could see from my friend's slight frown that he had had much the same thought.

“That marriage was of course annulled”, our visitor continued, mercifully unaware of the ghosts of troubles past that she had inadvertently raised, “and it was some years before Lord Gideon tried again, this time with a local lady. She gave him a daughter Mary and then twins, Louisa and Louis. Sadly however, as Louis grew up he became..... I think that the politest word I heard was 'erratic', and eventually Lord Gideon cut him off without a penny. That was what led to a final breach with Lady Thora who now lives in the lesser of his two London properties, just off Euston Square. My fellow servants think that Lord Gideon hopes for some sort of reconciliation as she has not yet filed for a divorce nor asked him so to do, although I myself think such a thing unlikely.”

“Even with the recent laws on married women's property it might not be in her financial interests so to do”, Sherlock observed, “which is something that I am sure that many at Maidenbower have spotted and likely remarked upon. Pray continue with your fascinating tale.”

“At the house in recent times there have been five people. Miss Mary is now twenty-eight years of age and Miss Louisa has just turned twenty-six.” She hesitated before continuing. “I am sorry to say that history appears to be repeating itself in that Miss Mary has taken up with a _most_ undesirable young man in the form of one Mr. Preston Sharpe, who owns several factories in the North of England but who is, though I hesitate to say it, _quite_ uncouth. Miss Louisa openly hates him and there have been several words spoken between the sisters over the matter.”

I could guess that those had to have been very unpleasant confrontations indeed, as anyone with servants knew full well to keep their voices down at such times.

“What happened to the wayward son Louis?” I asked, writing hard to keep up.

“He emigrated to the western United States and, so I heard, struck gold but was then killed in a bar fight over his claim”, she said with a shudder. “Such a wild country!”

“Savagery takes many forms”, Sherlock said with a smile. “A man can be a savage underneath a veneer of civilization, or a thoroughly decent fellow wearing a loincloth and wielding a huge weapon.”

I looked sharply at him. He had better not be referencing Mr. Benjamin Jackson-Giles, who had leered at Sherlock throughout my examination of him after our case in the docks. And I had not been at all jealous of those rippling muscles and his.... moderate endowment, although I supposed that I could see how he too had (thanks to Sherlock) a job modelling at an art studio. And why poor Mr. Garrick sometimes had to arrange to meet his cousin elsewhere when he found stairs 'painful'.

“Who is the fifth person of interest at this great house in the land of the South Saxons?” Sherlock asked with yet another annoying smile (I really should have started keeping count of the things!).

“Mr. Piers Smith”, she said. “He is the estate manager and is often to be found in the house. I think that he may have some feelings towards Miss Louisa but she shows absolutely no sign of returning them. Besides, he is almost _forty!”_

I smiled at her vehemence on the subject of age, particularly as my own thirty-eighth birthday lay barely a month ahead. Annoyingly I noticed the slight quirk at the edge of Sherlock's lips, which told me he knew quite well in which direction my thoughts had strayed, the bastard!

“Fascinating as these people are, something else must have happened to cause you to seek my assistance”, he pressed. “Please tell us what that was.”

She took a deep breath.

“Mr. Smith had of late been pressing Lord Gideon to move his money away from land and into other things”, she said. “That of course caused another argument with Miss Mary supporting the idea and Miss Louisa bitterly against; those two disagree about everything and anything! I would not normally know of such things but, as you may guess, both ladies tended to shout their opinions at the other so of course everyone knew. Then an opportunity arose to acquire the famous Blue Carbuncle which I had read about in a magazine one time. I am not sure, but I believe that the seller was related to Lord Gideon in some way and did not wish any of his closer family to have the stone when he passed as he was not at all fond of them.”

“I too read about it”, I said, thinking that 'not fond' was probably an understatement and then some. “The owner was a Mr. Darenth and it is a beautiful giant garnet, mined in East Africa and extremely valuable because of its rare colour. Blue garnets are almost unknown; I know that Her Majesty was recently presented with a green one which is almost as rare. The 'Times' claimed that his elder son took the stone in an attempt to sell it but, when found out, claimed that he was just having it polished. A likely story!”

I could have added that the younger son and daughter were just as bad, and that I was not the least bit surprised at their father's decision. I rarely interested myself in such things of course, and had only happened to glance at the social pages of the 'Times' on the day that article had appeared and that had better damn well not be another smirk!

“I suppose that Lord Gideon purchased the item solely as an investment”, our visitor continued, “though of course I know nothing about money and such things. Both Miss Mary and Miss Louisa wanted to have the stone set so that they could wear it but my master refused, preferring to keep it in his safe. Very wise in my humble opinion.”

Sherlock eyed her curiously.

“You are fearful lest this gem be stolen?” he asked. She nodded.

“Lord Gideon has been very good to me”, she said, “indeed to all of us, and I do not like the fact that he has so much of his wealth tied up in that small piece of crystal. If anything were to happen to it he could lose everything.”

“You have someone in mind?” I asked.

She sighed unhappily.

“Gentlemen”, she said, “I am not at all superstitious. But I did chance to be in the room one time when the ladies were examining it and I caught a brief glimpse. I will admit, something about it frightened me! All that money in something so small, yet it could disappear among the change in a gentleman’s pocket!”

To my surprise Sherlock shook his head.

“No no, Miss Brooks, that will not do at all”, he said firmly shaking an admonitory finger at her. “You do not call in a consulting detective just because of a strange feeling that even you yourself do not fully believe in. You have seen or heard something definite in that house, and it has made you anxious enough to seek our help for a master who from your description you quite rightly esteem. Now, I am indeed inclined to look into this matter for you and I am prepared to do so solely to satisfy my own curiosity, but you must be totally frank with me. What else do you know?”

 _How did he do that?_ She looked away guiltily.

“You will think it silly”, she muttered.

“Bearing in mind some of the things that I have heard said in this room, I sincerely doubt that”, I assured her with a smile.

“It is just….. something that was overheard.”

“Go on”, Sherlock urged. She took a deep breath.

“It is mere gossip”, she said, blushing fiercely, “and I was not even the one to hear it. We have this maid, Rose. She is a good worker and has absolutely no imagination whatsoever, but I would swear that she is honest. She had been very anxious the last few days and yesterday she confided in me as to the cause. She had heard Mr. Sharpe talking to someone in his bedroom…..”

She stopped, clearly embarrassed. 

“Did this Rose know who he was talking to?” Sherlock asked.

“No, except that it was a woman. Miss Louisa was in bed with a cold on the other side of the house – I had taken her up a drink that morning and she always makes the most of any illness – and I know that it cannot have been Miss Mary because at that time she always goes down to the village shop to purchase a weekly magazine that she likes. Rose told me that she finished the room that she was in, the one above the bedroom, just as the clock was striking ten, and when I asked around later I found that Miss Mary had stayed in the village for much of that morning.”

“Did this Rose hear anything in particular?” Sherlock pressed. That brought on a further bout of blushing. 

“He – Mr. Sharpe - seemed to be expressing some sort of…. affections towards the woman”, she said at last. “Maidenbower is a large house and several of the maids are young enough to attract the attentions of someone like that, I am afraid. I myself think that it was most probably that awful Susie, who is no better than she ought to be!”

She almost spat out the last words in disgust. I suppressed a smile as I quickly sketched a small cat next to my notes. Sherlock pressed his fingers together and glanced pointedly at me. I did not blush (much).

“I do not suppose if you happen to know whether your master has had the stone valued at all?” the annoying mind-reader asked our guest.

“He has not”, she said. “James told me that he spoke at dinner of getting that done while he was in the capital and Mr. Smith recommended the services of a jeweller that he knew to him.”

Sherlock nodded then turned to me.

“Doctor”, he said casually, “how would you feel about a few breaths of fresh Sussex air?”

ϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙ

I was surprised that Sherlock insisted that we decamp immediately to Victoria Station for the train to Horsham and thence to Partridge Green for Maidenbower. 

“From what that young lady has told me I fully expect something to happen before Lord Gideon reaches London”, he said. “We are dealing with someone both bold and resourceful here, and I would not put it past them to kill for what they are after.”

I felt comfortingly towards the pistol in my doctor’s bag. He looked knowingly at me.

“Indeed my faithful friend”, he said heavily. “Though I hope we will not need to resort to such measures if what I have planned works out. I intend to force the villain’s hand and make them strike at a time of my choosing, not theirs.”

I nodded.

“So”, he went on, “you are my walking social encyclopaedia, doctor. What can you tell me about the DeVilles of Maidenbower?”

I scowled at him for that.

“Lord Gideon inherited the place from his elder brother Garrett who resigned the title to go to Central Africa”, I said stiffly. “Not widely regretted from what little I know of him; the 'Times' called him a DeVille by name and devil by nature. The new lord of Maidenbower is a much gentler person by all accounts. The only thing that I can add to Miss Brooks's information is that the second wife is being fully supported by her own family who are quite well-off, so could sue for a divorce if she had so wanted. The fact that she has made no moves in that direction does suggest that she may indeed be open to a reconciliation.”

“Also her husband's character is such that he has earned the sympathy of one of his maids, which may well be what saves his estate”, Sherlock said dryly. He leaned across and took my hand in his. “I am sorry for teasing you, John.”

I pouted but I knew that once he gave me that kicked puppy look of his I was lost. I sighed resignedly as our train swept through the Surrey countryside and towards Sussex, but I did not let go his hand.

ϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙ

I have to say that the Downs took me by surprise in their late autumn glory. I had had to study history at school and learn all about how the invading South Saxons drove the Celts into the impenetrable depths of the huge forested hills beyond the coastal strip, and I suppose that in some way I still envisaged it as an untamed wilderness. Yet the area had a gentle and almost entrancing beauty about it, England at its very finest. 

I was also reminded, less happily, that the Downs pretty much began in Hampshire not far from a certain village where a certain Master Ivan Leeds was growing up unaware just who his real father was. And who might have some rather difficult questions for me when he came of age and learned the truth about his origins.

Partridge Green Station was typical of many such up and down the country. It often made me wonder that, despite the newness of the Railway Age, there was something distinctly English about a train shuffling slowly through the hedgerows past stations and halts binding the countryside together. A sleepy porter carried our bags out to a waiting cab and Sherlock tipped him rather more generously than his 'service' had merited, in my opinion.

Maidenbower turned out to be an almost palatial building with some obviously Elizabethan parts to the front. Our driver told us that it had been built on the site of an old priory, the monks having been amongst the many evicted by that old tyrant King Henry the Eighth, and that the DeVilles had held the estate ever since the Restoration with the original lord having been an acquaintance of the great Sir Thomas Fairfax. We drove up to a massive oak front door and were soon admitted to the building. 

Lord Gideon DeVille was much as Miss Brooks had described, a kindly white-haired old gentleman. He was clearly surprised at our presence but Sherlock soon explained matters.

“The doctor and I were sorting out a small matter for an important personage in the area”, he said, “and since the papers have been full of stories concerning the Blue Carbuncle, I decided to come here and see this marvel. If of course you do not mind showing it to two passing strangers?”

“Of course not”, the nobleman said. “Why sir, you are justifiably famous for your deeds. Come, let us go to my study and we can observe the jewel in peace.”

We followed him out of the reception room across the hall to a solid-looking door which he unlocked with one of his keys.

“I am pleased to see you take security seriously”, Sherlock observed. Our host chuckled.

“Much of my estate is tied up in those few ounces of precious stone, sir”, he said. “My safe is built into a reinforced wall and it has both a key and a combination lock, both of which only I hold.”

“Surely that is a little dangerous?” Sherlock ventured. “God forbid but if anything were to happen to your good self….”

“I employ two lawyers, one of whom keeps a copy of the key and the other the combination”, he explained. “In the event of my not writing to them at the start of each quarter they are instructed to come to the estate and bring what will be needed to access the stone. My daughters actually wanted to wear the thing out in public, would you believe, but of course I refused.”

“Very sensible”, I said. I always marvelled at women wanting to wear so much worth in public; to me it seemed like an invitation to criminals, especially when they could wear a copy that looked exactly the same.

Our host unlocked the safe and paused before taking out a silken pouch from which he extracted a sparkling blue gemstone. He handed it over to Sherlock who looked at it appraisingly.

“Very clever”, he muttered.

I looked at him, surprised. Our host chuckled.

“I can see that you have an eye for quality, Mr. Holmes”, he said, retrieving the gemstone. “It is of course a fake, albeit a good-quality one.”

He replaced the stone in a pouch before putting both back in the safe. Then he reached far into the back and pulled some sort of lever. There was a faint grinding noise and he extracted a small wooden box which he handed to Sherlock. My friend opened it and took the second gemstone over to the window where he looked at it appraisingly.

“This on the other hand is the real thing”, he said firmly. “Pray, who came up with the ingenious device of a false stone and a hidden compartment?”

“My estate manager, Mr. Smith”, the nobleman said. “He was very keen on getting my money out of land, which was wise as the return has fallen sharply of late, but was worried that my holding such a stone in the house would attract thieves. I have not informed the rest of my family.

“May I be permitted to examine the mechanism at the back of the safe?” Sherlock asked politely.

“Of course, sir.”

He carefully placed the two stones aside and duly felt around at the back of the safe. I did not know why he found this so fascinating but I supposed that he had his reasons. Once he had finished, he checked both stones again and replaced each in its correct place.

“I do not wish to alarm you, Lord Gideon”, he said, “but I am of the firm belief that an attempt will be made to take this stone from you, and quite soon.”

The man paled. 

“That would ruin me!” he shuddered.

“Having seen your most excellent preparations I have a plan which may help forestall such an attempt”, Sherlock said. “I know that I ask much of you on so short an acquaintance, but would you be guided by me in this matter?”

“Sir, I know from the good doctor’s books that you are honourable in all you do”, he said firmly. “I trust you implicitly.”

“Thank you”, Sherlock said, shooting me a glance. “Then this is what you must do….”

ϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙ

Sherlock and I were invited to spend the night at Maidenbower and we endured a difficult dinner with the other inhabitants of the house, most of whom I frankly disliked on sight. Miss Mary DeVille was overly made-up, loud, and spent much of the meal arguing with her similar and equally unpleasant sister Miss Louisa. Mr. Sharpe reminded me vaguely of a vulture for some reason although I also had the distinct feeling that I knew him from somewhere (probably one of the lawyers that I had met in my time; there was surely a factory churning them out somewhere or other along with politicians, journalists, sewage workers and others of that ilk). Only Mr. Smith the estate manager came across as calm and polite, and we discussed politics and my writings quite happily.

It was at the end of dinner that our host remarked that Sherlock had advised him to get the carbuncle valued before his trip to London on Sunday and insured for that trip just in case, hence that a jeweller he had once helped out could come up from Littlehampton the following morning. He also recommended a City bank that he had helped one time as a far safer place to store the stone, and Lord DeVille agreed to that. Mr. Smith also thought it a most excellent idea.

ϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙ

After an uncomfortable night without my resident human octopus I joined Sherlock for breakfast – a maid told us that we were likely to be alone for this meal as the house's regular occupants were not morning people – and my friend mourned the lack of coffee. Fortunately at least there was bacon. 

Our meal had just concluded when a footman asked us if we would attend Lord Gideon in the study as a matter of urgency. We hurried after the fellow and entered the room to find the nobleman and his daughters. They all looked shocked.

“What has happened?” I asked.

“Both Mr. Sharpe and Mr. Smith have disappeared”, Lord Gideon said flatly. “One or both of them has managed to break into the safe and steal the Blue Carbuncle. We are ruined!”

Sherlock took the seat opposite the nobleman and sighed.

“I have a tale to tell you, my lord”, he said. “I am afraid that you will find some parts of it depressing.”

“I do not think that I could feel any lower than I do now”, the nobleman said with a heavy sigh.

“It is the story of a wayward son who abandons his father and moves to start a new life abroad”, Sherlock said. “He buys a ticket to Liverpool and tells his family that he is heading to the United States, but instead he uses the money that he has managed to secure to set himself up as a businessman in the North of England. He does very well for himself, but all the time he quietly monitors from afar the family that he has disgraced and who have rightly disowned him.”

Lord Gideon looked at him warily but said nothing.

“The son is determined to reclaim his inheritance but he knows that there is no chance through the law, as his father has settled the estate on his two daughters. However, he then has a lucky break. The estate acquires a new manager who he, ahem, 'persuades' to work with him. The son prompts the manager to propose to his master the idea of investing his funds value into precious stones - in other words, something that a man could easily carry away in his pocket.”

I stared curiously at Sherlock, feeling that I had just missed something there.

“The wayward son is by this time unrecognisable to his kin”, Sherlock continued, “five years older, heavier and bearded, and he persuades the manager to introduce him to his own elder sister whom he sets about courting. They become engaged although of course there can be no union, or at least no legal one through which he might regain the estate. The ruse is merely to allow the wayward son access to the house, and he spends as much time as possible away 'on business' in case he is recognized despite his precautions. He also plays the rake earning the distrust of his father who, inadvertently, comes to rely even more on his estate manager for advice. Which was entirely what both men had planned.”

“It is the manager who suggests the blind of a second gemstone with the real one concealed behind a false panel at the back of the safe. Of course he is merely waiting for a chance to switch the stones around, most probably when his master travels up to London shortly. He has had a key made and he has made sure to learn the combination as his master does not suspect him of any ill intent. The son will most probably fake an illness promising to follow on in a day or so, and all is set fair for the rogues.”

“But then there arises a problem. They learn that the house owner is planning to not only have his stone valued but the deposit it in the safety of a London bank vault. A quick consultation and a theft is effected that same night, the two men rushing from the house.”

Lord Gideon groaned. Sherlock smiled reassuringly.

“This tale has yet two more parts”, he said comfortingly. “A concerned and dutiful housemaid, whose admiration the master of the house has earned and which same is about to prove far above the value many might place on such a small thing, has grown concerned about certain developments in the house and has taken advantage of being sent ahead to London to call in on a certain consulting detective, who from her excellent description of events correctly reasons that action must be taken and quickly. He and his friend travel down to the house where the crime is planned. It is to his advantage that working with criminals has taught him certain sleight of hand skills that, just occasionally, are rather useful.”

Sherlock reached into his pocket and drew out his handkerchief, which he placed on the table and unfolded. Inside, sure enough, was a sparkling blue gemstone which he handed to Lord Gideon. The nobleman held it up to where it shone in the flickering firelight and we all stared at it in shocked silence until he slowly took it down again.

 _“The real one!”_ he said incredulously.

“The real one”, Sherlock said with a nod. “Your son is probably waiting for a ship to some distant shore right now, blissfully unaware that the box in his pocket contains the replica.”

“But what about Mr. Smith”, the nobleman asked.

“Ah.”

We all looked at Sherlock. That did not sound good.

“I did say that there were _two_ more parts to my story”, he said carefully. “The second is a less happy one, that I feared might develop from my actions yesterday. It struck me from analysing your son's character that he was not the sort to share his ill-gotten gains with a stranger, no matter how important that stranger's role in achieving his dark ends. I am sorry to have to say this my lord, but I have a distinct feeling that if you drain the ornamental lake over which the road into and out of this house passes, I think it quite likely that you will find your late estate manager therein.”

“But why did Mr. Smith agree to work with my son?” Lord Gideon demanded. “For money?”

Sherlock looked across at me. 

“Did you notice how Mr. Smith's voice had never broken?” he asked quietly. 

I had no idea what he was talking about – until it suddenly hit me. Mr. Preston Sharpe, in reality Mr. Louis DeVille, had not been wooing one of the serving girls when the maid Rose had chanced to overhear him. He had been..... 

Oh. _Oh!_

“The doctor and I must be back to London”, Sherlock said briskly, “but we will call in at the village police-station for you and inform them of developments. We shall also ensure that your local constable telegraphs his superiors as soon as possible. Thanks to the advent of modern communications I feel sure that we shall soon be able to track down a thief and a murderer.”

I thanked our host who was clearly still trying to work out Sherlock's meaning, and hurried upstairs to pack. Hurried as in ran.

ϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙ

For once Sherlock was wrong about capturing Mr. Louis DeVille, whose use of a false name meant that he was not tracked down until his ship, the 'Ferdinand', had left Cape Town for Bombay. It was also found that he had called in at a jeweller's in the Dark Continent so had presumably realized that his precious gemstone was a fake. He had definitely been on board the ship when it had left and had booked ahead to spend some nights in the Indian port before presumably intending to disappear into the subcontinent. I say 'intending' that because three days later the 'Ferdinand' was lost in a storm while crossing the treacherous Indian Ocean, her wreckage being located some months later. 

Sherlock was however right about the lake, the body of the slain Mr. Smith with a single bullet wound to the heart being dragged from it the day after we left. The whole experience quite deterred Lord Gideon from his venture into the gemstone market, but he sold the Blue Carbuncle for twenty-five percent above what he paid for it and lived very well off that money for the rest of his days, which did indeed include a reconciliation with Lady Thora. He offered Sherlock a most generous reward but my friend asked that he only have one-third of it, the remainder being split between the late Mr. Smith's disabled younger brother who had been dependent on his support and had had no part in the business, and the maid whose repayment of her master's generosity had yielded far more than anyone would ever have dreamed.

ϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙ


	21. Interlude: Ups And Downs

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> 1889\. Sherlock visits his demonic cousin at a bad time.

_[Narration by Mr. Sherlock Holmes, Esquire]_

John and I had returned from the Downs to a London already in the grip of winter, even if the season itself had not officially started as of yet. I had noted (because I am the observant sort) that during our latest jewellery case my friend had been more thoughtful than usual, and when I had challenged him on it he had admitted that he had found the Sussex Downs unexpectedly beautiful. _Like him_ , I thought but for obvious reasons did not say.

As so often John came back to a flurry of work – I would have to have Words with his Surgery, for much as they were flexible about his helping me they also seemed to be far too demanding when he came back to them – and I decided to go round and see Luke about it. I was not surprised when a familiar behemoth opened his door to me.

“Hullo Mr. Holmes sir”, Benji grinned. “Mr. Lucifer is sleeping, I'm afraid.”

I sighed. The middle of the day, so even without the smirk from the fellow in front of me I knew full well why my cousin was 'sleeping'. Sexual exhaustion – _again!_

“It is not urgent”, I said. “How are things, Benji?”

“Bet's better now after her illness”, he said, “and we decided not try again until next year to be on the safe side. Luckily I've got Mr. Lucifer to work things out on.”

He really was terrible but then it was Luke who was suffering, so....

“Both Ben and Billy are doing well at school”, he said. “Well, they got into a bit of a scrap the other week but Mr. Lucifer, he went to the school and sorted things out.”

I sighed; I could well guess the cause of that scrap. Young Benjamin Jackson-Giles the Second was as black as his father while his brother William had inherited his mother's pale skin, something the less educated among their peers would of course have picked up on. The elder boy also had something of a temper on him which I knew worried his level-headed if sexually insatiable father.

“But all is well now?” I asked. 

He nodded.

“I think they were just jealous because Ben came top of his class”, he said, “and some of them couldn't handle being beaten by one of us. I'd better be getting back to Mr. Lucifer sir; he'll be needing his dinner soon.”

“Try to leave him in one piece, Benji”, I smiled.

“No promises, sir!” he grinned darkly before returning to the house.

I sighed. My poor cousin, reaping the 'benefits' of his lover's sexual attentions. Still, I had not been to a funeral for some time.....

ϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙϙ


End file.
